


Wounds of War

by Reverseit1971



Category: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005), Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - All Media Types, Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory (1971)
Genre: Family, Friendship, Healing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2019-07-16 06:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16079948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reverseit1971/pseuds/Reverseit1971
Summary: After Willy Wonka's apprentice and heir moves into the factory with his family, Wonka learns that the Bucket family has an additional member he did not know about. Charlie’s elder brother, Thomas, has been overseas after having been drafted to serve in the Vietnam war a year before Charlie had won the Golden Ticket. A year after the factory tour, Thomas’ term of his service is coming to an end. When Thomas returns, Mr. Wonka struggles with his feelings about what war has done the young man and how it affects Charlie’s well-being and outlook on life.





	1. Letters

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The character of Willy Wonka is entirely physically based on the version portrayed by Gene Wilder in the 1971 film version of Dahl's creation. While many love the persona that Wilder created for Wonka during the factory tour, my characterization of the character is based on the version of the man we see in the last ten minutes of the production. Wonka from time to time may don his old demeanor in certain instances in this work, however my endeavor is to illustrate the kindly nature of Charlie's mentor in the years after the Golden Ticket affair.

* * *

  _ **"Who can take tomorrow,**_

_**dip it in a dream,** _

_**separate the sorrow and collect up all the cream?** _

_**The candyman, the candyman can.** _

**_The candyman can 'cause he mixes it with love_ **

**_and makes the world taste good._ **

**_And the world tastes good 'cause the candyman_**

**_thinks it should."_ **

* * *

 

There was nothing like a letter to interrupt the cadence of a normal day in the Wonka factory. Not that any day in the factory could be considered ‘normal’ by an outsider, however whenever a missive came for Charlie Bucket, Mr. Wonka recognized that he was about to lose the attention of his pupil for the entire day.

The duo, mentor and student, were sitting together at a table in a middle of the Inventing Room as Willy examined how Charlie experimented with flavoured serums. An array of glass vials, beakers, and flasks were spread before the pair and each contained a clear, lightly-tinted liquid. If one wafted the contents of each container, they realized that the liquids ranged from fruity to savory scents that either comforted or surprised the nose on the opposite end.  
Charlie’s hesitant hand reached for a beaker and poured 20 milliliters of its volume into a buret before he also reached for a dropper to add a smaller quantity of liquid from another vial.

“I think this would go well together,” Charlie shared.

Willy was used to the quiet tones of his apprentice, and gently added his own thoughts before he would sample the concoction with Charlie. “You’re doing well, my boy. No need to feel there are any wrong answers during the inventing stages. Here, we learn what is pleasant to the senses or what we would like to avoid in our candies.”

His more experienced hand turned the spigot to released the blended liquid into the tasting glass. After allowing Charlie to take a sip of his experiment, Wonka lifted the glass to his nose.

“Strawberry,” Wonka’s thin lips pulled into a soft smile and Charlie observed a glint of amusement dance around in the man’s watery eyes. He continued, “and...two herbs. One is peppermint, and--” he sniffed again with a perplexed glance at what he held in his hand, “--basil?”

Charlie’s face brightened with a grin, “You always guess right.”

“I’ve been doing this a long time, Charlie,” Willy reminded him and tipped the liquid into his mouth. He swallowed, pensively smacked his lips, and pondered the combination that Charlie had come up with. “It’s very balanced and surprisingly goes well together,” he complimented. “We should put it on file and see whether we can incorporate it with one of our new products. What do you think?”

“I liked how it turned out,” Charlie shared. “I wasn’t sure about it at first, but it’s better than I thought it would taste.”

Willy patted his young novice’s shoulder reassuringly, “Great job with this one.” He recognized that Charlie’s palate was maturing because of the extended periods of time he had spent experimenting with Wonka in the Inventing Room. “Why don’t you try to come up with one more combination to end our day?” he suggested.

“Okay,” Charlie readily agreed, but was not quick to move to action. Willy let the boy think, for he could see the cogs turning in his young head. His heart warmed as he watched Charlie start to sniff the serums again and play with drops of the liquid in a petri dish. The boy was taking risks, and Willy held in a chuckle as a combination made Charlie’s face twist in displeasure. He’d soon gain an instinct on what works and what to avoid when creating candies.

Their solitude was interrupted by an Oompa-Loompa entering the chamber. Willy recognized him as Zumph, an individual who usually worked in the creaming and sugaring division of the Chocolate Room. The small humanoid approached the table, and Wonka could spot a battered envelope clutched in one of the gloved hands of his employee. At the sight of the letter, Wonka knew that his lessons for the day with Charlie were at an end.

Wonka accepted the letter from the Oompa-Loompa with a soft thank you and recognized the familiar writing of a young man who was still a stranger to him.

“Charlie, it’s for you,” Wonka passed the letter to his apprentice. Charlie had already been distracted by Zumph’s entrance, and with the confirmation that the message was for him, he trembled with new energy as he took the letter and enthusiastically ripped open the sealed correspondence to flatten the creases of the paper.

Willy decided it was more comfortable for Charlie if he pretended to have little interest in the contents of the letter until his pupil was willing to share with him, so he pulled a small notebook from the pocket of his vest and scribbled down some memorandums that had come to his mind during the few hours he had been with Charlie.

He was in the middle of jotting down a reminder to fix the gear system of the taffy puller when Charlie jumped up from his chair intent on running out of the room. Willy, nimbly, caught Charlie by the wrist and pulled him back.

“Whoa, there, Charlie, where’s the fire?” He was concerned with the speed that Charlie was leaving with, for haste action could be very dangerous in the production section of his factory.

“I’m sorry, Wonka,” Charlie stood before him. “I just need to see my mom right away, and Grandpa Joe, and Grandma Josephine, and Grandpa George, and--”

Wonka cut him off, “I see it’s a family affair, Charlie, and one that has gotten you quite excited at that.” He glanced at the letter that Charlie still clasped in his small hands, and he hated to admit it, but he was extremely curious about what in it could have sparked so much spirit in Charlie. It probably wasn’t his place, but he found himself asking, “Care to share with me?”

“Mr. Wonka,” Charlie handed him the letter, “Thomas is coming home.”

Wonka examined the piece of paper Charlie had handed him and, indeed, found the lines that informed him Thomas’ regiment was coming back to America and was due back sometime in the middle of March. Wonka recognized that meant Thomas would be due to arrive within the next week or so, being that March was almost over.

“This is exciting,” Wonka smiled flatly, unable to share the same level of zeal that his pupil was exhibiting. Yet, he tried to be encouraging. “This news must be shared immediately, Charlie. Go, go. Don’t run, but take the Wonkavator.”

In his rush, Charlie forgot to take the letter with him, but he hastily exited into the corridors leaving Wonka alone.

Wonka read the entirety of the letter and contemplated the situation.

Thomas Bucket…

After two years, Willy was able to feel that he had connected with each of the Buckets. Grandpa Joe displayed immense interest in the factory and the running of it, and acted as a confident to Charlie as much as Wonka had become a support in the young boy’s life. The rest of the grandparents seemed more distant, however they each viewed Willy as the savior of the entire family in promising Charlie the chocolate factory. He could chat comfortably which each of them, and in the better circumstances of life in the factory, the health of each individual had improved drastically. Mrs. Bucket and Willy had formed a platonic comradery that centered on the mutual interest in the health and safety of Charlie, her son. Overall, Willy now felt he had integrated himself into a harmonious relationship with each member of the Bucket family.

The additional of a new arrival might disrupt the balance he felt he had achieved.

Willy folded the letter and slipped it into his travel notebook, also making a mental note to give it back to Charlie for a keepsake the next time he saw him. Next, he gathered up the chemistry equipment Charlie and he were playing with during their flavour experiments and took them to the sink to wash. The clink of glass on glass against the soothing rush of the faucet calmed him as he cleaned each piece. He set them out to dry on the counter, retrieved his overcoat, shut off the lights, and left to seek the solitude of his office.


	2. A Mother's Concern

The pendulum swung back and forth, back and forth, tick tock, tick tock across the right half of a clock face. At the end of a bronze arm, the metal half moon pitched itself away from the wooden panel and into the airy space before the golden strip of wallpaper only to return again to the dark wood of the timepiece. 

Wonka observed the bronze piece pass again and again against the gold as the metered clicks of the mechanism measured each second that passed. To him, in this moment, in this state, the sound was a companionable noise.

Underneath the clock, he sat in a half-chair before half of a well-worn desk holding a quill in his hand. The account books laid open before him utterly forgotten.   
Upon coming into the office, Wonka had shed his purple overcoat and hung it on his half coat rack before balancing his top hat on the half bust of the likeness of himself. He had been intent on totaling up the week’s figures, but after a brief spurt of time battling with the figures, he had realized that completing this mission was impossible as his head was buzzing in a way that made the numbers blur and mingle on the pages of his ledger. 

So, for an immeasurable amount of time, Willy found that watching the clock was a practice that contained in it enough simplicity to keep his attention. And now he sat, sleeves rolled up and cravat loosened, trying to unwind from the day’s events and watching the hands of the clock tick forwards.

Slowly he eyes descended from the clock and flickered over to the small memorandum book he carried around as a habit. Over the edge of the closed volume peeked the letter that had been at the forefront of his mind ever since its appearance. The hand that desired to take it up again ran itself through the shock of tangled hair that already had the appearance of being unkempt. 

A timid knock sounded on the other side of the door disrupting his isolation. Startled, Wonka leaned forward. His hands fluttered to tighten his necktie and adjust his vest quickly. 

“Come in,” he was cognizant of keeping his voice as inviting as he possibly could.

The door opened and Mrs. Bucket entered the room. 

“Mrs. Bucket, my dear lady,” Wonka rose from his seat to welcome her. “How can I help you at this hour?” He did not know the amount of time that he had been sitting in a pensive unproductivity, however, he had marked that the hour was late, far later than he was used to taking visitors. There was the additional concern in his eyes that Mrs. Bucket was not in habit to visit him in his office. She instead preferred the warmth of the residential area of the building whenever she had to discuss a matter with the chocolatier. 

The wooden chair half that customarily stood next to his desk was moved to offer Mrs. Bucket a place to sit. 

“It’s quite alright,” he assured her, having noticed she shared a concern that many expressed at the eccentricity of the furniture in his office. “It will support you just as well as a full chair would.” His eyes sparkled as if he was on the verge of sharing the secret of the halvedness of his office, yet he remained quiet.

Mrs. Bucket gingerly lowered herself onto the half-seat. “I’m sorry to have come and so late, but I felt compelled to come talk with you after hearing the news Charlie shared with us today.” 

Wonka took his own seat in his desk chair and presented her with a gracious smile, even if it looked a tired one. “I’m sure you’re overjoyed to hear of your son’s return,” he spoke.

The tension in Mrs. Bucket’s expression loosened, and Wonka observed that these days the stress lines that had been so prominent in her features at their first meeting had gradually been eroded over the span time that the Bucket family had come to join him at the factory. Something deep inside of him was glad for it. 

“I’m very happy to hear he is coming home safe,” Mrs. Bucket acknowledged. “With everything the papers and television have shared about what’s going on with the war, I’m afraid I was more scared than I was willing to admit. It’s so hard. Tom hasn’t shared anything about his experiences. I’m not sure he could over letters, but-- it makes one wonder.” 

Willy silently agreed with her. Although he was more of a recluse to the world than the Buckets, he was not unaware of what the conflict was doing to the country. War often brought with it horrendous things. Charlie had shared more than today’s letter with him, and Willy had always found the blatant omission of whatever was happening to the young man on the other end of the correspondences unnerving. 

The thought of the letters brought his mind back to missive he currently had in his possession. This time he did reach for the small notebook that laid on his desk, and upon picking it up, retrieved the letter from its contents. 

Suddenly aware that he had been in possession of something that was quite intimate to the family, Wonka timidly handed over the note, “I hope you’ll forgive me for being forward and reading it,” he apologized. “Charlie shared it with me, but he left before I could give it back to him.” 

Mrs. Bucket unfolded the paper and seemed to be halfway partial to crying or laughing at the sight of the scrawl that covered the inside. Her eyes darted down the lines that Willy had read over hours beforehand. 

“I don’t mind.” Mrs. Bucket found this a genuine feeling. It was hard to feel that barriers had to be built to separate the Bucket family from the considerate chocolatier. “After all you’ve done for Charlie, it seems right for you to know everything at the time that we know it.” She paused and clutched the letter, unwilling to let it go. “I am sorry if it complicates matters.” 

Wonka began to understand what was behind the weight that had seemed to enter the room with Mrs. Bucket. The woman before him was scared of a division in the family. “Madam, my offer when I asked Charlie to become my apprentice was to the entire family, to come live at the factory, to be able to act as supports to him, for I alone cannot care for the boy,” he began to explain.

Part of the reason Willy had insisted that all of the members of the family should move to the factory with the boy was because Charlie needed to know he could find support in others besides Wonka. There was the fact that one day Willy was not going to be able to be there for Charlie. Though, if one was to think of the natural course of life, Charlie’s grandparents would not be able to be there for support when that time came, and Charlie’s mother was going to be advanced in years. However, showing Charlie a support network is strongest with multiple individuals involved would help the boy reach out to others over the course of his life. It had been something that Wonka had found hard to do for himself, but something that he desired for the boy. 

Wonka continued, “My offer extends to Thomas as well, for he is part of your family. I hope you are not worrying yourself over what is to become of him at his return. Please welcome him here. It is your home as well as mine now.” 

“You’re very generous, Mr. Wonka. So much so. I don’t know how we will ever be able to repay you.” 

“All of you repay me in certain ways,” Willy belied her need of display restitution for his actions. “I’m quite content with the arrangements if you are.” 

“As soon as we hear from Tom I’ll ask him to come then,” Mrs. Bucket complied. 

Willy could see Mrs. Bucket start to collect herself together to retreat, but he stopped her before she could rise from the half-chair. “Would you tell me about Thomas?” 

He had tried thinking of what type of individual he would be--from his letters and what he could gather from Charlie. But he eluded Wonka for some reason. The request surprised Mrs. Bucket, yet she acquiesced. 

“What do you want to know?” 

Willy wasn’t sure how to break up his curiosity into questions, but he started with simple ones. “What are his interests? How would you describe him?” 

Mrs. Bucket gathered her thoughts for a moment. “I would say-- he’s more serious than Charlie. Although he did have a sense of humor. Fond of books and school, but couldn’t go on to finish and graduate--he got jobs round the clock to try to help the family--” she trailed off for a second, and Willy saw that the last statement hurt her. 

“A commendable sacrifice. And a needed one,” he commented in a lower tone, prompting her to go on. 

“He did odd jobs. When he was younger, he used to be the one to do Charlie’s afternoon paper route,” Mrs. Bucket continued on. “When Tom received his summons Mr. Jopeck hired on Charlie because he knew Tom would not be able to bring money into the house with everything else he had picked up over the years. Tom had been working shifts at a warehouse to unload trucks and contracted himself to the neighbors to fix up their cars and houses. He was skilled in finding out how to solve how to fix things. He liked puzzles… riddles and such.” 

Willy’s mind grabbed a hold of the pieces of information, stowing them away for later reflection. Mrs. Bucket was having difficulty with the subject, and Willy could see that he had awaken some repressed feelings of guilt and melancholy in her that accompanied memories of the past.

“He’s seven years older, no?” He decided to move the conversation in an easier direction for her. 

“Seven years, yes.”

Charlie was just turning thirteen, which would make Thomas twenty years old. 

Mrs. Bucket was more lost in her thoughts than present with him, and Wonka felt the obligation to let her depart to the rooms the family used as their own quarters.   
“You must be very tired,” Wonka stood, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I think all of us had a long day, and if you would excuse me, I think I’ll retire. Enough business for the day. Would you mind if I walked you back to the residential area?”

“I am tired,” Mrs. Bucket agreed. 

He helped her stand and then collected his coat and hat. The hat he placed jauntily on top his head and he slung the coat over his forearm before offering his other arm to Mrs. Bucket. His comical profile made her smile, and she allowed him to lead her out of the office and into the corridors. 

They walked together in companionable silence until the reached a painted door that separated the production side of the factory from the suites. On the other side, Willy walked past the door that opened up to his own rooms and walked Mrs. Bucket to the door of the Buckets’ suite. 

Wonka relinquished her arm, hoping that on the other side of the door Charlie and the other Buckets were fast asleep. 

“Here, is where I bid you goodnight, madam,” Wonka was ready to retreat, but thought of something else he wanted to say. “Thank you for satisfying my interest--about Thomas.” 

“Of course,” Mrs. Bucket dug into the pocket of her cardigan and brought out the key that would open her front door. 

“Do let me know when you hear of his arrival. If Charlie’s with me, I’ll send him immediately,” he added, beginning to step away. She unlocked the door and as she processed what he had just said, her face softened. 

Willy found it the appropriate time to leave, and turned around. The soft carpet that lined the hallway surrendered under the pressure of his shoes as he made his way back to his own front door. 

“Thank you!” he heard Mrs. Bucket call.


	3. Homecoming

The icy wind bit and lashed itself across the cheekbones of Thomas Bucket as he descended the stairs of the bus that had brought him to the edge of his hometown. An unseasonable dusting of snow lazily tumbled from the dusky skies above. Thomas lamented the extended winter that still reigned over spring.

He shouldered the pack that held all of his current possessions and started down the sidewalks that would bring him back to his childhood home.

The glow from the street lights dimly illuminated the scene of buildings in front him. Close to the station was the warehouse that Tom remembered many, many weary shifts of lifting out heavy crates from delivery trucks. It's bulking frame cast a looming shadow that almost reached the opposite side of the street. Tom briefly wondered whether he would be able to earn shifts on the day crew after being away for so long.

Soon he was passing the school. The thought of Charlie passing in and out of those doors flickered through his mind, and enthusiasm about their impending reunion began to grow only to be clouded by a notion that he never had before. Perhaps Charlie didn't go to the school anymore. All of his letters had revolved around the chocolate factory, the family, and most of all the man responsibility for the new fantastical life that Tom thought so strange and felt so distant from. Since winning the Golden Ticket, Charlie had not written about school to him at all.

He attempted to shrug off the afflicting feeling, but  _Bill's Candy Shop_ cemented the uneasiness that nagged at his conscious. The building was all jutting, sharp angles as night was falling fast. There was little light left now, but Thomas knew in the daytime the brownish-gray walls boasted colorful displays to advertise the delicious confections that were stocked inside.

Tom had never felt tempted to step inside of its perimeters for himself. When faced with the reality of a spare nickel or two, he'd felt the overwhelming urge to scrimp and save for a half loaf of bread or a cut of cheap meat that he could bring home to the family. Never having the luxury of extra pocket money as a child, Tom lacked the desire for sugary sweets or mouth melting chocolate.

_Bill's_  had always served as a better entrapment for Charlie. Often Thomas had found the young boy glued to the storefront window as numerous customers his own age grappled for the attention and wares of the candy store master. His brother would watch, his breath steaming the clear glass, as his classmates threw away their allowances on penny candy, Slugworth Sizzlers, and the inordinate array of Wonka creations that littered the shelves of the displays.

Thomas had often approached Charlie, having given him enough time to see what there was to be seen, and would lay a hand on his small shoulder to bring him back to reality.

"Soon Charlie," he would promise. It was a fact that Charlie was guaranteed at least two chocolate bars a year. One was always given to him in his birthday, and the other Thomas would sneak into a worn-out, common day stocking he'd nail above the stove of the beaten cottage wall every Christmas morning. Even though Tom had wanted to spend money on other specialities for Charlie, Grandpa Joe dedicatedly fought for the boy's right to chocolate. And Tom had too much sentiment for his brother to refuse.

Grandpa Joe had been the one who to turn Charlie's head with stories. Willy Wonka has become a figure immortalized in the boy's mind. Thomas' mind had put Wonka on the same level as Jack and the Beanstalk, Peter Pan, and Mickey Mouse, and found it utterly ridiculous that Charlie had refused a Slugworth Sizzler he had brought home as a surprise on a day he had received an unexpected tip.

"It's chocolate, Charlie, you love chocolate," Tom had pleaded with the boy.

"But it's Slugworth's!" Charlie hadn't been able to figure out why his brother couldn't understand the problem. "Grandpa Joe said Slugworth's the man that made Mr. Wonka shut down his factory."

Thomas remembered sighing in exasperation at Charlie's words. "I can't return a bar of chocolate. Would you just eat it?" Charlie had looked crestfallen, and Tom had felt it silly that guilt was rising in the pit of his stomach. He had found himself promising, "I'll never buy the brand again, okay?"

Still Charlie had refused to touch it, and Grandpa Joe, the other sweet tooth of the family, had done no better. Tom had offered it to every other member of the family, and only his mother would take a piece which left him still with an uncomfortable amount of the candy.

That was the first time since just past toddlerhood Thomas had attempted to eat chocolate. Breaking off a small nugget of the bar, Thomas chewed disliking the way the sugar coated his tongue and teeth. He had brushed his teeth twice after swallowing the gooey mess. He hadn't known what to do with the remainder.

However a solution had presented itself the day afterwards. He had passed the bar of chocolate off to a small girl at the house of the Plymouth Barracuda he was fixing the struts on. She was visiting her grandfather, the owner of the vehicle, and between having gotten the car jacked up and reaching for a socket wrench from his beaten toolbag, Tom had passed her the candy bar he had neatly folded back into its foil wrapper.

He had won the approval of the child, who didn't bat an eye at the two missing pieces, and of her Grandpa. Late, under an afternoon sun, he had walked home with an extra dollar for the job in his oil-stained hand and his tools slung over his shoulder.

Tonight, his addled thoughts of the past had distracted him from the distance that he had covered since leaving the station. A set of lavish wrought iron gates brought him back to the present moment. Beyond them, Mr. Wonka's factory towered high above the town. In the near distance, two round, leaden-glass porthole windows hugged a wooden double door. Tom recalled a letter that Charlie had sent immediately after his factory tour in which he detailed the way Wonka had approached the crowd that waited for him with a fake limp and a surprising somersault. His imagination tried to conjure up the image for himself, but the man that exited the door in his mind was faceless and undefined, so he gave up. It was strenuous to imagine that there was life inside of the walls of the manufactory because the gates and doors had always remained locked during his life.

In truth, Thomas remembered how his school friends and he had all dared each other to jump the gates as young kids. The mystery that shrouded the building and the candymaker inside only made rumors grow, and the boys enjoyed egging themselves on to approach the door of the man who had chosen to shut the world out. Somehow there was a fear that was connected with the action that Tom never understood. Many of the boys barely got over the fence before deciding to climb back over. Tom had never tried to jump the gate.

Having grown up early, Tom learned how to ignore the building and it blended into the landscape of the town he lived and worked in. Now was the first time in years that Tom had allowed more than a glance at the landmark. The campus of the factory stretched much farther than he had remembered. The buildings still looked abandoned. No noise or motion could be perceived on the premises.

Charlie had let him know that the family lived there now, and even though one of his strongest desires was to see those he loved and missed so much, it felt wrong to try to meet them now at the factory. Besides he didn't even know how to get in. There was no call button evident and Thomas didn't know the number of a line he could call from a payphone to contact them. Perhaps everybody would be sleeping too. Tom decided he'd find a solution to that puzzle in the morning.

Stepping away from the gate, he continued on the stretch that would bring him from the shack that family had resided in ever since he could remember. It's crooked frame welcomed him, albeit, it was evident from the darkened windows that there were no souls inside to greet him.

Tom pushed open the decrepit wooden gate that acted as a barrier between the road and the pathway that led up to the small house. Gravel crunched under his combat boots as he walked forwards to the door and pulled at the resisting boards that had shifted during the winter to wrench the panel open. The bottom of the door dug into the earthy mess before the threshold allowing him to slip into the shelter.

Not being able to see well in the dark, he dropped his pack and dug around its contents until he found the small flashlight he sought. With a click a soft beam of light illuminated the single room that was at the same time familiar and unfamiliar. A portion of the roof had caved in, and the majority of the rubble heaped onto the abandoned four poster bed his grandparents had been confined to. The rest of the debris was scattered across the wooden floor. Tom swept the light across the room. To his left, the round table he, his mother, and Charlie sat at during mealtimes was empty and stripped of tablecloth. A chair had toppled onto its side. Behind, kitty corner, was the cast iron stove. He spied beside it some leftover firewood and counted himself lucky that he'd be able to be warm tonight.

The handle to the damper of the stove screeched and clanged open and the sound emitted by the hinges of the fuel door echoed a similar shriek. After collecting some of the damaged roof materials from the ground to act as kindling, Tom balanced the flashlight between his teeth as he nestled a few of the larger logs into the belly of the stove. He had a cigarette lighter handy and set down the flashlight on the lonely table as he patiently waited for its small tongue of flame to catch the thin piece of tinder he held in his hand. The fire caught and grew, and Tom shifted the piece over the rest of the kindling watching the spread of the element.

There was an observable tremor in his hand which caused the tinder to jump and bounce wayward a few times from his intended targets. Trying to ignore it didn't work, as an unstable wavering of his hand resulted in a few singed knuckle hairs. He dropped the tinder out of shock and yanked his hand back to rub at the small injury. Meekly, the flames of the kindling started to lick at the surrounding logs. It was not a roaring fire, and some of the wood smouldered and hissed letting him know it needed to be dried out more, yet Tom felt that in time he would have a decent source of heat.

Giving the back of his hand one more vigorous rub to numb the bite of the fire, he reached for the lighter he had placed on the ground next to where he'd knelt. Before returning the small object to his pocket, Tom dug into another compartment of his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. It was the last of what the army had commissioned to him, and as he flipped open the top of the pack he was disappointed to find he had only four left. Yet, he shook one out into the palm of his hand and light it with the dexterity of one used to the action. He'd have a enough spare money to buy more tomorrow, and that realisation calmed him as he exhaled a small cloud of smoke.

He stood and stretched, all the while keeping a calm repetition of inhaling and exhaling going as he walked to explore the rest of the place. The shakiness of his hand started to subside.

In the back of the cabin the curtain that had acted as a divider for where Charlie and he had slept was torn down. The tarnished cloth had been attacked by vermin seeking materials for a nest which left it riddled with holes and ghastly tears. Thomas noticed many things were missing. All of Charlie clothes, his meager supply of toys and books had vanished. The thin, lumpy mattresses the boys had slept on were stripped bare of sheets. Even in the dim light of the open stove Tom could see the blotches of stains on the gray striped pattern. His own possessions he had left behind seemed to have been packed away and taken. The best of his clothes, his own small supply of books, his tool bag had vanished. Left on some of the shoddy, makeshift shelves were some of his worst worn out clothes. A jumper with a tear on the collar, an oil stained pair of ripped jeans, an overcoat that one would be surprised if it lent warmth to its wearer. He picked up a pair of sneakers that he had duct-taped the soles of.

It was an embarrassment to be poor. The days that Tom had to endure the snickering of his schoolmates and the pitiful expressions of strangers were not that far removed in his past. Part of why he liked his work shifts so much was the equality the hard work brought to he and his peers. Nobody cared whether your clothes or stained or ripped as you hefted crates off of a truck. Nobody thought it odd that you wore outfits you didn't care to get grease on as you broke open an engine. The judgement and stares happened in town away from the work. He'd thought the days of being judged by his clothes were over, but he had been taught another lesson upon returning back to his country.

The bus trip brought him home late enough that nobody cared about the solitary individual dressed in army fatigues who roamed around the streets late at night. No passer-bys thought it necessary to have noticed him or even acknowledge his presence. The little town had slept and had been content enough to forget him.

He platoon's arrival to the airport had been far different. He had learned that the uniform he wore entered him into an entirely different conflict than the one he had left behind in Vietnam.

Crowds of people had swarmed the airport, and Tom had been prepared to see the various members of the families of his fellow soldiers. But he had not been prepared for the masses that had come with their signs and their chants, with their booing and jeering.

Having had already said his goodbyes to the few individuals that he counted as friends, and who had also survived, he was free to leave as a civilian with his discharge papers. Armed with the money from his last paycheck, he had been intent on getting out quickly to catch the next bus that would truly bring him home. As he had attempted to push his way through the crowds, the anti-war protesters had taken notice of the green he was wearing.

And the voices rang down on him. Signs had been shoved in his face. He wasn't entirely certain whether someone had spit at him. Hands shoving, jostling him as he had tried to get through. And above the ding, one select voice he would remember for the rest of his life.

"You should be ashamed!" A woman, bedangled with many peace signs, accosted him. "You're a murderer of children! You'll rot in Hell!"

He'd lost her almost immediately in the crowd. His goal had been constant motion to push through the tirade. He had emerged into the sunlit day, hailed the first cab he could, and tried to calm himself in the backseat from the waves of conflicting emotions that had clashed within him.

Some residue of those emotions surged up inside him now. He dropped the sneakers. They thudded to the ground.

He was angry at the woman, not so much that she had been wrong but the fact that she just didn't understand. She didn't understand the moments where it was either you to somebody else, she didn't understand the fear of what laid twenty yards from you in the dark of the unsheltered jungle of the night, she didn't understand that death could be lingered above you ten feet off the ground, and most of all she didn't understand that those situations came from a damned piece of paper from the war office.

He'd been drafted for god sakes.

He exhaled a hitched breath not realising he had stopped breathing for a second. And he told himself that it was ok. It was okay to be vulnerable here… alone.

He snubbed out the cigarette.

The uniform he wore now was thick, hole-free, and warm in comparison to what he had grown up wearing, but there was a sensation of being in it that made his skin crawl. The itch grew uncomfortable.

Ripping off the jacket, he pulled the jumper on over his tank top, and grimaced at the motion that brought a twinge to his right shoulder. The still unhealed recoil injury had been aggravated by overuse that bruised the bone and kept the joint sore. He kicked of the boots and trousers and traded them for the oil-stained jeans. He kept the warm socks and, calmer now, pondered over the boots.

They were a good pair of shoes.

The pair of taped sneakers laid in a heap a foot away, and Tom imagined putting them on again. The constant worry of losing the rubber sole. Stepping into a puddle. Damp feet all day.

He reached for the combat boots. Best be sensible a little bit. The sneakers were past their life. Anyone could see that… and the boots were, after all, just shoes. The laces firmly hugged at his ankles as he put them on again.

The mirror that customarily hung to the left of the door had been taken too. But, even without it, Tom was sure he looked a comical sight. The sleeves of the sweater rode up his forearms slightly too much. The jeans had always been a bit big having been a pair that had been passed down from someone taller and wider than he was. He rescued the belt out of the pile of the uniform and looped it through to secure the lower half of his new outfit. It felt colder in the clothes, so he slipped on the beaten jacket that had been on the shelf too, and he decided to drag one of the mattresses closer to the stove.

He laid down and ensured he had an adequate view of the front door. The right side of his body was warmed by the heat radiating off of the metal of the stove. From this angle, looking up, he could see through the hole of the roof. The view was a smokestack from the chocolate factory. In the darkness the brilliant white letters of 'WONKA' popped. He noticed that the 'N' flickered. Bad bulb.

He rolled away onto his side and tried to sleep.

Maybe it was the thinness of the mattress which allowed him to still feel the hardness of the wooden floor beneath him that kept him awake. But he was also keenly aware that the door had no lock on it and he was the only one in the room. He argued against the urge he felt to get up and barricade the entry. It was stupid. After all, there was a hole in the ceiling.

He shifted again and closed his eyes.

Unwelcome scenes plagued his dreams, and he was aware that the night passed with much tossing and turning. There were a few hours he just laid there staring at a random spot across the room, willing his heavy eyes to close into a dreamless sleep.

It must be jet lag, he reasoned to himself, as he waited for the sun.

But somehow he knew it was just a lie.


	4. Chalk and Stones

Bill Fletcher savored the languid starts of his Saturday mornings. Although his candy shop opened early on weekend days, he was able to use the first hours of operation to resupply the depleted wares on his burnished sable-wood shelves. Being a Saturday, the shop's attendance was ever-growing and promised him a healthy profit margin when he would finally close his doors for the day, but right now he was able to work in relative solitude. His only customers at the moment were a quiet boy at the counter who had requested a penny's worth of jelly beans and an elderly couple who habitually stopped in during their weekend walks about town.

The rush was yet to come.

After adjusting one of the cuffs of his pin-striped shirt for better mobility, he climbed the rolling ladder to reach the glass jars that housed his cheaper fares and pulled down the butterscotch container. He descended and placed it on the gray marble top counter. Many of the boxes he received during his Friday afternoon delivery were staged behind the counter, away from customers' eyes, but for his own ease, he hefted the box of butterscotches up and rested it beside the jar he was going to fill.

The bronze bell on the door announced another customer's entrance. Bill glanced up and recognized the person who walked into his shop almost immediately.

It was the Bucket boy's older brother. Bill had become accustomed to his rare but habitual visits over the years. Over the years the young man would usually come in after the wave of school children had dispersed from the building and would always do the following. He would come up to the counter, would politely request to purchase the nearest Wonka product, would hand over spare bits of change that always totaled up to the charge, and would promptly leave.

Often, Bill suspected that the coins were meticulously saved over the time periods between his visits. The shop owner had watched him come in throughout the entirety of his teenage years, and the one constant was the shabbiness of his clothes and the worn-out expression. The exchange for a school backpack to a beaten leather tool bag had not gone unnoticed, and neither had been the bristle-scrubbed hands or the smudges of motor-grease that often marked a forearm or a cheek. Bill had put two-and-two together and realized the kid had likely quit school and was making a living in other ways.

Sometimes Bill was tempted to try to give a chocolate bar away for free, but something in the way the boy always handled his coins deterred him from showing charity.

He had begun to anticipate the yearly visits. One occurred the night before Christmas Eve and the other sometime in early October. He had managed to learn that every purchase was either for a younger brother or an elderly grandfather who was bed-bound. Never had Bill sold a bar of chocolate that he expected was for the man himself. It was this self-sacrificing behavior that had influenced Bill's decision two years ago.

In the melee of the Wonka madness, Bill had received a set of instructions with one of the shipments that had surprised him. Wrapped around one of the bars stashed in a Wonka's original crate had been a letter addressed to the shop owner detailing the following. The bar contained the last Golden Ticket, and Mr. Wonka desired its finder to be a local resident, a child, if possible, but someone Bill held in good repute. Wonka was seeking an individual who was compassionate, respectful, and empathetic to others. A follow-up visit from a man named Wilkinson had further cemented the reasoning of the chocolatier. Wonka was disappointed with the winners so far and, having anticipated the possibility, had saved where the final ticket would be located. Although Bill felt strange about the virtual rigging of the contest, Wilkinson had persuaded him to heed Wonka's request.

The crate had come in September, and Bill had a little less than a month to sell the bar. The timing meant that Bill had seriously considered saving the bar of chocolate for the visit he knew would happen in early October.

However, the man had never come.

Disappointed, Bill had kept the bar safe behind the counter as a display as he searched for another person to sell it to. When Charlie Bucket came into his store, he was reminded of who he had hoped to have come into his store. Between the clothes and the thought of buying a candy bar for his grandfather, Bill had figured as he handed over the winning ticket that this might be the younger brother. He had been surprised of the omission of any elder brother in any of the news coverage of Charlie and wondered if a tragedy had befallen the family.

When Charlie Bucket last visited his shop during a small press tour, Bill had asked whether he had a connection to the man who would come in every so often, and Charlie confirmed that it had been his brother, Thomas, who had gone to Vietnam.

Now, the young man was back in his store, and Bill felt a wave of gratitude accompany the notion that Thomas Bucket had survived the war. No limbs were missing, no limp was present, and he was wearing the familiar threadbare clothes Bill was so accustomed to seeing. It would seem that no time had passed, but a closer look showed the man who left town had aged as a consequence of the strain his recent environment had put him through.

"Well, I haven't seen you in a while," Bill rested the silver scoop he had been using to fill his large glass jars of penny candy down. "Missed a few birthdays and Christmases, didn't you? How can I help?"

Bill could tell he had surprised Thomas with such a direct greeting, however, it provided an opening that the other man seemed to have been looking for. Thomas Bucket stopped pretending to study items available for purchase and approached where Bill stood behind the counter.

"Can I help you?" Bill repeated his offer.

"I think you might be able to," he responded crossing his arms across his chest in clear discomfort. A twinge in his facial features told Bill that the motion was not an easy one for Tom to perform.

"I've just gotten a full shipment of Wonka products," Bill knew this couldn't be what Thomas actually came in for, but he hoped the familiarity of their previous exchanges might ease him into whatever request he had.

"That's kind of why I came," Tom began, "I know you house Wonka products. You have for years, even when other shops didn't. I was just wondering how you contact your supplier to let them know what you need in your inventory."

Bill nodded, "You want to get in contact with your family." It really wasn't a question at all, and Bill could see he had exacted what Thomas was really after. "If you give me a time that works for you to meet someone at the gates, I'll call myself right now," he offered.

"If you don't mind."

"I don't mind."

"Ten o'clock?" Tom offered the impending hour as an option.

"I'll see if it works," Bill stepped away from the counter and ventured into a back room where his private business phone hung on the wall. He picked up the receiver and punched in the number for a local call. Mr. Wilkinson was able to be reached after a brief exchange with a secretary, and the proposed time was agreed on.

Bill returned to the waiting Thomas and shared the success of his call.

"Thank you. I really appreciate it," Tom seemed reluctant to leave, and Bill observed his eyes rove over the Wonka products out of habit. Then, as if deciding upon a resolution, he offered a fifty-cent piece to Bill.

Bill accepted the coin, "What'll be? Scrumdiddlyumptious bar? Wonka original?"

"It's for the phone call," Tom shouldered the bag he had brought in with him. It wasn't his customary tool bag, it was just a knapsack.

"Phone call is free," Bill tried to hand the money back.

"Keep it," Tom insisted. "It doesn't make sense to buy anything. I kept customers from the counter. You were nice. You didn't have to do it."

Bill found it ridiculous. Fifty cents for a phone call to a place Tom wouldn't have been able to reach anywhere else. "Your kid brother's probably going to expect at least something from the store," he reasoned. "I'll keep the money, but let me give you something for it."

"He's got a whole chocolate factory at his fingertips," Tom laughed. "It would just be absurd to bring some in with me."

Bill wasn't prepared for how the statement made him feel. He role had been minimal: a witness to the fraternal link over the years of a caring brother buying a token here or there, sacrificing what he could to give a brother a little happiness now and then. Now, he felt he was on the precipice of the end of something. And he had had a hand in it.

"I'm sure it would still mean something," Bill reasoned.

Tom shook his head, "Maybe a different time." He noticed the small boy at the counter, fingering the last of his small share of jelly beans. "Buy that kid what he wants. On me." He stepped away. "And make it Wonka's." He added as if it were an afterthought.

Before Bill knew it, Tom was out of the store. The little bronze bell rung to signify his departure. Tom passed by the right half of the front window panes making his way along the streets.

Bill was unsure if he'd ever see him again.

* * *

"Careful, Charlie," Willy warned quietly as his young heir moved a rook on the chessboard that laid on the small table between them. His inexperienced play would make the piece vulnerable to one of his own knights and his queen who was still battling full force against the white army.

His interjection had been enough to stay Charlie's hand, and the boy realized the consequences that the move could have for his own success against Wonka's black pieces. He returned the rook and studied the board some more.

Wonka waited. Charlie was allowed extra time to mull over the options at his disposal since the game was relatively new and much more challenging than the checkers matches that had started the friendly bouts of board games between the two. Willy found that he enjoyed time in the factory with Charlie in the Inventing Room and various other dedicated rooms of production, but he never underestimated the intimacy that could be built with some quiet time in a common room with a game. The activity provided entertainment for Charlie and a chance for Wonka to explore who Charlie was and pick his brain over matters of both business and life.

To be honest, the variety of the games played between them at not been vast. Wonka has spent some time teaching Charlie simple card games, for the Buckets had owner a ragged deck of cards, and he was familiar with some versions of the games Wonka knew. Then, when Wonka had offered to expand their repertoire into other games, Charlie had chosen checkers.

"Tom and I played," Charlie had shared one time when they set up their rows of red and black tokens on the patterned grid. "He'd tell me to pull out small bits of chalk the teachers would throw away in school from the bins and we'd sketch a board on the floor."

Wonka's heart had twinged at the notion that the Buckets hadn't even been able to afford a meager board game. His nimble fingers had straightened out a row of plastic discs to give him something to do as he listened closely.

"Tom would find rocks for our set," Charlie continued. The elongated amounts of time he had been able to spend with his mentor had made him much more trusting of Wonka, and memories of his past life often tumbled from his mouth without delay. "I'd help. We bring home black and gray stones, and Tom built a box out of scrap wood from the warehouse. If I got done with my homework and he wasn't too tired we'd play before bed."

Wonka remembered how that conversation had led him towards keeping the games Charlie and he played in the common room, even if they had been items Wonka had brought out from his own rooms. He liked Charlie to have the opportunity to retrieve a game and play with his grandparents or his mother on evenings when Wonka could not be with him or visit with all of the Buckets. Each new game that the two tried together had joined the room.

Charlie was liking chess, even if it had been challenging to learn, but Wonka was a patient teacher. Their game times helped Charlie divorce himself from the image of the man who'd wildly lost his temper with him after the factory tour. Wonka had multiple times explained to him how he was very sorry to have acted that way with Charlie. He wasn't that type of man, even if he did sometimes lose patience with aspects of his business. He'd vowed he would never ever become angry or impatient with Charlie.

Though it did take a few weeks, Charlie began to believe him and the tension eased in their interactions with each other.

Today, the atmosphere was easy and allowed each to repose from a busy week of school and factory obligations. Charlie knelt on the floor next to the low table and rested his back on the couch behind him. Considering the casualness of the situation, Wonka had abandoned the purple overcoat and the caramel colored top hat that distinguished his character elsewhere. The pieces of clothing laid draped over the chair he sat in, as he contemplated his own move. After a few fleeting seconds, he shifted a bishop.

Charlie was about to respond, but they were both interrupted by a soft knock at the door of the common room.

"I'm sorry, Charlie," Wonka apologized that their time together would be disturbed, but he knew that his employees tried their best never to interrupt their boss during his time with his pupil. It must be important. He called out to whoever was on the other side of the door, "Come in."

The door noiselessly opened, and Mr. Wilkinson, Wonka's personal assistant entered the room.

It wasn't unusual for Wilkinson to interrupt during times that Willy was devoting time to spend with Charlie. The business needed to run, of course, and though James Wilkinson was masterful in the arts of account keeping, contracts, logistics, and management, he still deferred to Mr. Wonka on important and pressing matters whenever they came up.

"I'm so sorry, sir, but this couldn't wait," James stopped short of the chair Wonka sat at and adjusted his glasses, something he was apt to do when he was concerned about something.

"It usually never can," Willy remarked with a glint in his eye. He and James had a remarkable relationship of dual opposites. James was a very serious man who was very serious about his job. He had the fortunate characteristics of punctuality and exactitude which kept the business running smoothly and kept stress from being something that Willy had to deal with on a daily basis. Willy, on the other hand, had all the spark, all the ingenuity and energy that was needed to keep the factory a place of wonder and delight. His showmanship quality kept the workers happy and their brand a legacy in the world market.

For all their differences the men got along remarkable well, yet Willy never passed a chance to rib James for his graveness in hopes to get the man to lighten up.

James went on, ignoring the small comment from Wonka, "I've just received a phone call from Bill Fletcher."

The name resonated with Willy immediately. "Was there something wrong with his weekly shipment?" He asked, motioning Charlie to continue playing his turn of the match. The boy moved a pawn.

"Nothing wrong, sir. But he had a visitor come in this morning," he seemed uncertain whether he should go on.

"Continue, James. Why should I be interested in a random visitor in Fletcher's shop?"

"Because it was Charlie's brother."

Charlie's head snapped up in attention. "Thomas is here?"

"Not here yet," Wilkinson corrected, "but he'll be at the factory gates at ten o'clock."

"But that's fifteen minutes from now!" Charlie jumped to his feet.

"It's very soon, yes," Willy felt a sudden rush of concern flood over him. So little time. "Charlie, go fetch Grandpa Joe and bring him to the gates," he heard himself giving instructions. "He's on the assembly line this morning."

Charlie rushed from the room forgetting that Mr. Wonka did not like anyone running in the factory. But Willy let him go nonetheless. James waited for what he could do.

"Did you speak to him directly?" Wonka found himself asking.

"To the elder Bucket? No. Bill stepped away to make the call."

"Why didn't we plan this?" Willy wondered aloud. "We knew he would have to come back eventually. Imagine having to get a candy store owner to track down your family. Why didn't we let him know how to get here?"

James didn't answer any of the questions knowing that the man in front of him was venting off anxiety and concern for bringing another individual into the factory. He was reminded of previous conversations where the two of them discussed who was to have access to the facilities. Charlie? The family? The ghostly memories of spies and thieves still hung heavy over their enterprise. Yet, Wonka had been able to trust every member of the Bucket family so far. The factory owner had fallen into mumbling to himself, but James was only able to catch the last words.

Wonka sighed into his hand, "how embarrassing…"

"Would you like to be at the gates, Willy? Or would you prefer to introduce yourself later?" James fell into familiar terms with the man who had been his friend longer than a business associate. That seemed to bring Willy back around to attention.

"Of course I want to be there," he pulled on his jacket and flipped his hat on top of his head. "Charlie will expect it." He paused fixing a cuff on his jacket and began to conjecture who was out there on the way to his premises. "Maybe give the gate key to Margaret," he suggested, "and I'll come in a little later. Give the Buckets a little time to say hello."

One look over at James and Wonka could tell the man agreed with him. It was hard to remember that the family had rights to their own affairs at times.

Wonka sighed, "It's about to get more complicated, isn't it."

James gave a weak smile, "I'll bring Mrs. Bucket the key," He promised before he left the room.

Wonka took a second before exiting the room himself. He strode off towards the main entrance and his office knowing that there would be a window in the hall to glance out to let him know when the time was appropriate for him to join the reunited family.

* * *

Thomas could already see a figure beyond the gates as he made his way up Cherry Street. He had timed it appropriately as a result of not wanting to be too early and having to wait. Getting closer, he recognized his mother. Her face broke out into a radiant smile, and he knew it was inevitable that she was going to cry. She fumbled with a funny looking key as she tried to insert it into the lock in the metal.

"Tom, hi love," her words were wobbly, like her hands. He hated that there was a gate between them at the moment.

"Hey, Mom," he dropped his bag watching as she still struggled with the task in front of her.

"Darn this thing," her laugh was shaky. She wiped a tear that threatened to tumble from her eye.

He felt himself surrender up a genuine smile as he slid a bony wrist through the gate to take the key from her. "You look good," he was more able to slip the implement into the lock, and his wrist twisted and defeated the pressure of the tumblers that held the gate fast. The hinges creaked as Margaret Bucket pulled the door back and fully embraced her son.

He could feel her body heave with silent sobs as he let his own arms wrap around her. She buried her face into his jacket to hide the fact she had lost all composure.

"Hey, I'm here," he felt a lump rise in his own throat. "There no need for that now, ok." He squeezed her gently and pulled her away to look at her. "I'm fine. All limbs, fingers, and toes. Can't knock me down or keep me away for long. Come on, don't let Charlie see you like this."

His mother wiped her face dry and tried to hold in the rest. "I know. I'm just glad...glad it's real. You know?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty damn glad too."

He bent to pick up his pack and stepped further into the courtyard with her. She seemed to register him fully now.

"You chose to wear that?" She fretted over his clothes pulling at the tear that ran along his collar. He was still wearing the abandoned clothes he had found at the house. "Oil on everything… all the time, I thought we were done with that." She pointed out the grease stains evident on the whole ensemble. "I don't remember you taking these with you."

"I didn't," Tom's answer was a distracted one as he studied the new surroundings with curiosity. "Found them at the house. Was sick of the uniform."

"You were at the house?" His mother sounded upset.

"Yeah, I came in last night."

"Tom—"

Whatever she had to say was interrupted as the double doors underneath the Wonka's logo burst open in full force. A blur of blue and a shock of blond hair rocketed forth with an impact that sent him staggering back a few paces.

Tom held on tight to his brother for a few moments. "Hey, champ," he breathed quietly feeling the firm pressure of Charlie's hug. Finally, he untangled himself from the young boy. "Oh my god, just look at you." Two years changed a lot. Charlie had grown into himself. He was no longer the little boy he left behind. He looked stronger, more keen… and taller. He reached up to Thomas' shoulder now. It was another impact that sent Tom's mind staggering. For a moment he realized he had not expected time to pass on this end of his life so quickly. Such a foolishly impossible thought.

"Looks like I'm going to have to buy that brick after all," Thomas pushed back the negative feeling crawling up through his chest and joked as he mimed balancing a weight on Charlie's head. "I can't have a kid brother whose taller than me. That's just not right."

"I can't control that!" Charlie exclaimed, laughing.

"Well, you could try a little harder," he spun Charlie and twisted him into himself, wrapped an arm across the front of the boy's shoulders, and rested his chin on the head now in front of him. It was a familiar action for the both of them. Tom's brotherly affection often took the form of absent-minded half-hugs and distracted physical gestures. Charlie savored the fraternal contact that he had missed.

"Tom," Margaret tried again, but Thomas dissuaded her with a subtle shake of a head and glance down at Charlie. Not here. Not now. Don't make it an issue at this moment.

"There's someone else to see you," Charlie wriggled out from his grasp and dragged Thomas by the arm to face the entrance he had just run out.

"Really?" He goaded his little brother, skeptical of the fact there was anyone else to meet him. There was Charlie and there was their mother. Everyone he expected to have out here was here.

Charlie directed his attention to the open door and with seconds the tall familiar frame of Grandpa Joe came lumbering out of it. The old man walked, slightly unsteadily and slowly, down the steps and towards his family.

Tom felt his jawline loosen in surprise, "He's out of bed," he declared, slightly dumbfounded. He looked towards his mother who nodded. Thomas stood frozen taking in the sight. The man he was so used to seeing under the cover of blanket and sheets was here, vertical, in front of him.

"I kept it a surprise," Charlie let go of his hand. "Grandpa Joe was the one who went on the factory tour with me."

Thomas blinked and struggled his words for a second, "I—I always thought Mom was the one to go with you."

"No, no, Charlie and I were the ones to have a little fun," Grandpa Joe stood in front of his two grandsons beaming. "That golden ticket was the miracle I needed to get out of bed after all those years."

Thomas fought with some conflicting emotions in his chest and then extended a hand to his grandfather. The eldest Bucket clasped it in his own hands for a brief moment before pulling his returned grandson into a deep hug.

Thomas felt one of the large hands at the back of his hair, "I'm so glad we didn't lose you, my boy." It was a warm whisper, full of blissful relief from a reign of fear. Tom let himself push deeper into the embrace remembering the man in front of him survived the Great War and had watched his own son battle through the second.

* * *

Wonka observed the courtyard from a place where he was guaranteed to be invisible to anyone who sought him. Margaret Bucket stood sentinel at the gates waiting the last minutes of what had been the longest wait of her life. He hoped Charlie was quick, it seemed odd to see her out there standing alone, wringing her hands.

In a matter of minutes, a figure approached on the other side of the gate.

Willy wasn't sure what he had been expecting Thomas to look like. The man was of moderate height maybe an inch or two shorter than himself. Definitely shorter if Wonka were to stand next to him with his hat. Maybe Wonka felt he should have had a harder look, harsher. Perhaps, "soldier" is what had conquered the image up in his mind. But the man who was gently helping with the gate key was more yielding.

He was trim. His frame was not skin and bones or starved-like. It instead was used to using itself for work, but also carried a weight with it. Gravitas. Like he was carrying stress.

Wonka leaned against the windowsill as the two, mother and son, hugged. He had her hair color. It was a deeper strawberry blond, much deeper than the light color of Charlie's.

They were talking and walking closer to the door. Willy's hiding place would not allow him to know what they were saying, but he saw Margaret pull at her son's clothing and remark something. He felt a strange satisfaction that it wasn't an army uniform that Tom was wearing. Her son shrugged off her comment, instead, he craned his head a bit and circled as he walked forward. The young man was studying the exterior of his factory, and off-handedly saying something when suddenly Charlie's form charged onto the frame of the window pane Wonka peered out of.

A chuckle escaped him as he saw his apprentice nearly knock the newcomer off his feet. He knew too well the force that Charlie could hug with when over-excited about something.

And like that, it was if a magic spell had been cast. All the weight seemed to leave the man, replaced with more energy and vigor. He could almost discern what he thought was a smile from the young man as he joked about something which made Charlie laugh and fake-struggle against being taken captive in his older brother's arms in a different fashion.

Wonka suspected he was finally meeting the warm figure from so many of Charlie's memories of the past. This man in front of him. This man now was the one who told Charlie it was okay to take chalk that nobody wanted, who had taken time to bend down and pocket each stone he came across during his day, who labored at shading in the squares of a grid on the stone floor in the back of cramped, rickety house. Here, he betrayed real affection in the way he rested his head on the top of Charlie's and how he let the boy drag him across the courtyard to the door.

Something loosened in his own chest, and Willy felt some of his own worries untangle and diminish at the scene before him. All of them were closer now, and Wonka now understood why Margaret had been so concentrated on the young man's clothes. All of the Buckets' garments had been patched and worn thin. Poverty doesn't bring with it a bountiful harvest. But Thomas' clothes were absolutely beaten down to the last thread. Wonka made a decision and shed his purple coat. He laid it on the windowsill, perched his hat upon it, and rolled up his sleeves as if he simply had decided to get up from his work. It seemed less intimidating.

Grandpa Joe was coming out now. Wanting to actually be there to welcome Thomas Bucket into his factory, Wonka decided to make his way to the front entrance. 


	5. The Meeting

Even the most secure of moments must come to an end.

Enfolded in Grandpa Joe's arms, Thomas Bucket had been momentarily freed from the burdens which had steadily plagued him, but the feelings settled heavily back in his chest as the confines of the embrace broke. As he stepped back from the old man, it became clear to him that the sanctity of their small family reunion was now broken by an unfamiliar figure who waited unassumingly just inside the doorway of the building.

He became aware that Charlie had followed his gaze, and, without hesitation, the youngest Bucket scampered up the way towards the man who had silently appeared while the family had been occupied with each other. Thomas watched his brother and the man exchange a few words before Charlie took him by the hand to lead him down to where he and the rest of his family stood.

"It's Mr. Wonka," Grandpa Joe shared in undertone as he adjusted his position to better welcome the pair.

Thomas raised an eyebrow, "Is it now?"

Thomas never considered himself to have much of an imagination, yet growing up hearing about Mr. Willy Wonka from Grandpa Joe and Charlie, he hadn't been able to control deliberating over who the man might have been. Of all the variations he had come up in his own mind, no conception resembled the person who now stood before him.

"Thomas," the middle-aged man smiled, "I've been hearing a lot of things about you during the last couple of weeks," Mr. Wonka extended a hand in greeting which lingered in the space between them for a few seconds.

Wonka's smile lessened in intensity at Tom's pause in action which led to the younger man eventually fulfilling his end of the handshake half-heartedly. Charlie observed the interaction and fidgeted uncomfortably at that tension that Thomas' reluctance had created. Tom knew he had to repair the slight mishap quickly, if only for his brother's sake.

"Good things, I hope," he forced his own smile as he released the man's hand.

Mr. Wonka nodded his head and some warmth returned to his expression and his demeanor brightened considerably.

"Yes, all good things, of course," the chocolatier assured. "I'm very glad to see you arrive safe here. Welcome. Welcome to the factory. I hope you'll forgive the roundabout way of getting here this morning. I'll call Bill Fletcher personally to thank him."

"I'm sure he'd appreciate the gesture," Thomas remarked.

Wonka pushed through clipped mannerisms of his conversation partner, "I'm sure he will."

Margaret inserted herself, "Your other grandparents are inside, dear."

Her reminder allowed Willy a more gracious transition than he could come up with by himself. Turning to his apprentice, he acknowledged, "Saturdays are usually my day with Charlie, being school takes up most of his week, but being it's a special occasion, I think he should spend time with the family. I'll beg you all to let me take my leave. Thomas, if there's anything you need, any accommodation I can provide, do let me know. Your mother will show you to the residential quarters."

Margaret knew how much Wonka valued his time with Charlie and made an exception to the normal schedule they usually kept. "Mr. Wonka, why don't you come for dinner? Invite Mr. Wilkinson as well. It gives us a few hours, but Charlie would still have some time with you today."

The factory owner considered it pensively, and Charlie interjected, "Please come, Wonka."

"We'd love it," Joe added.

Wonka was keenly aware that Tom had not added his own opinion to the proposition. He spoke slowly, "I appreciate the offer, truly," he smiled warmly. "However, I do have work that needs my attention. If the dinner hour comes and I can potentially take a break I will make an appearance. Otherwise, I hope each of you enjoys the day." It covered both bases for him. He planned on visiting the Bucket suite, but if it would be too much work to integrate himself into the society of the group, he would excuse himself as being too busy.

"Charlie," he continued, "how about we work together in the Inventing Room tomorrow afternoon, just for a few hours?"

The youngest Bucket brightened considerably, "That sounds fantastic."

Willy felt it was time for his exit, "It's a plan then. Buckets have a wonderful afternoon. Mr. Thomas," he stretched out his hand again, and the newcomer accepted it more quickly than he had the first time, yet still tentatively, "absolute delight to finally meet you. Adieu- arrivederci- goodbye."


	6. Family Matters

Thomas walked into the suite that the rest of his family now called home and was overpowered with the contrast it had over their previous dwelling. The area was an open concept. To the left, inside the door, was a kitchen that housed a series of modern appliances that Thomas never thought his family would own. The harvest gold fridge and oven were new models that he'd seen in stores. Luxuries, since it was a boon to even have a sink connected to running water in the cooking area.

A small island counter jutting out from the left-hand wall and the change from tile to carpet flooring divided the area from the kitchen to a dining and living room combo. On the other side of the high counter, a teak dining set extended itself parallel from the structure. Olive green cushioned chairs circled the rounded, oval table. Further, into the space, a low-back couch, sofa, and a few deep-set armchairs faced each other to create a gathering space. Incorporated amongst them were a television set and a radio.

A glass sliding door interrupted the whitewashed wall of the apartment on the right side, and Thomas could see a small concrete balcony overlooked the courtyard they had just come from.

Ahead, across the rooms from the front door was a hallway that stretched further back and separated off into separate rooms. Thomas could only presume that was where the bedrooms were located.

"In a way, it's not much bigger than our last place," Margaret had followed his roving gaze. She stepped around him and waited for him to walk further into the room. Joe and Charlie came up behind them.

Joe scoffed at his daughter-in-law's words, "It's a kingdom, Maggie, and you know it."

Tom dropped his bag off to the side near the door. His grandfather was right. It was spacious to what they already knew.

"It gets a little cramped with six people," Margaret defended.

"Do you like it?" Charlie had sidled up near Thomas.

Tom felt his answer to the question was going to be heavily weighed by his younger brother. "It's nice," he yielded, saying what he knew Charlie and his family wanted to hear. He felt Joe's eyes on him. "Really nice," he added for emphasis.

"I'll get Josephine," Joe offered. "She's napping."

Margaret stopped the man before he took off for the small hallway. "Could you get my dad, too? He'll want to see Tom."

"Of course."

"Thank you."

Tom let Charlie pull him farther into the room towards the sitting area. The two sat on the sofa as Margaret took a seat on the couch opposite. The sight of her two boys together once again brought warmth to her heart.

"Just George and Josephine?" Concern pinched the corners of Tom's eyes.

"Grandma Georgina mostly stays in bed these days," Charlie's quiet voice carried a sadness with it. Tom reached out an arm and wrapped it around the boy's shoulder.

Their mother shared the latest developments of her mother's health, "She's taken a turn, I'm afraid. If she's out of the suite she doesn't know where she is sometimes. She's forgetting people. Stuck in the past most days." Two years has transformed forgetfulness into an unforgiving disease.

Charlie leaned into Thomas, "She thinks I'm you most of the time."

"Look on the bright side, kiddo," Tom increased the pressure of his half-hug, "at least she didn't have to miss me." The attempt at humor didn't cheer anyone resulting in Tom dropping his voice into a softer tone just for Charlie's sake.

"Deep down she knows who you are."

A good amount of shuffling could be heard from the hall.

"Thomas! Thomas!" Josephine labored her way into the room with the aid of a walker and her husband trailing closely behind her nervous about her balance. At her first cry, Tom started from the sofa and went to meet her.

"Hello, Grandma."

Tom and Joe helped her settle down into one of the chairs. The former knelt down beside her.

"Oh, Thomas," Josephine let out a breathy, joyous sigh and stretched out a wrinkled hand to one of his cheeks. "Welcome home. It's good to have you back." Even if there was a fragility to her movement, there was vigor in her voice, and Tom was heartened to see that another one of his grandparents could live life outside of a bed.

Tom let her stroke his cheek without protest. "It's good to see you," he murmured.

"You look tired, dear," she commented quietly. The ex-soldier felt for a moment she could see deep within him. "It doesn't do to be tired," she added knowingly.

"I'm fine. It's just the travel."

"Two years is a damn long time," George hobbled into the room with his cane striking the floor with every other step. Thomas rose from his place on the floor to greet the man.

"I agree."

George forcefully shook his grandson's hand. "I thought you'd be more tan. They didn't let you sunbathe out there?"

"Dad!" Margaret chided.

"What? He was in a jungle for Christ sakes. I expected to see a little color. I didn't get the same venue he did. France during the Great War was dreary as all hell."

He clapped Thomas on the shoulder. The bad shoulder. Tom suppressed a wince. "Back in one piece, sonny." He winked. Before he was deported, George had pulled him aside to make his grandson swear he'd do everything he could to come home safe. It was a moment of tenderness he never would admit to, but Tom had made good on his promise.

"One piece," Tom echoed.

"Excellent," George dropped onto the other end of the couch. "Three generations," he crowed. "War can't bring this family down. Eh, Joe?"

The other patriarch had served on a different front of the Great War, and he had watched his own son, Robert, battle the larger than life threat of the Third Reich. War had not cut down Robert Bucket. A stress filled life and a weak heart did him in. Yes, every male, save Charlie, had survived a war and had come back home to show it.

Joe did not find as much enthusiasm in the topic as his compatriot, "Hmm- I suppose you could say that George," he acquiesced softly as he took a seat in the chair closest to Thomas. He reached out his hand and patted his grandson's forearm. "We're just glad you're finally home. Put that behind you."

Tom pulled his arm away and re-adjusted his position on the sofa.

"Already done," they were empty words covered over with false cheer. He felt the eyes of the adults on him. Mechanically, Tom dug out the cigarette pack from his pocket and tipped out one of the remaining ones into his hand.

"Thomas," Margaret stopped him from igniting his lighter. "Not-not in the house." The appearance of such an object in her son's hands had clearly taken her off-guard and, likewise, everyone else in the room. It was a new habit they associated with Thomas, but not one uncommon for someone leaving the armed forces.

"I'm just going to duck out then. Just for a minute," excusing himself, Tom was glad to retreat from the attention of the others if only for a moment. The glass door to the balcony slide open easily, and, safely alone, he lit the cigarette. He studied the view. It was the courtyard they had just left. In plain sight was the door that had brought him into this bizarre, new world.

He took a drag on his cigarette. The door opened behind him, and his mother slipped out.

"Such a sudden exit," she remarked.

"I'm sorry. I just need some air."

"I'm going to look past the irony of that," she motioned to the cigarette he held.

He flicked the growing ash off from the tip, "You hate this."

"I don't like."

"Grandpa Joe smokes."

"He quit two years ago right after you left."

"Another change."

Margaret pieced together what was potentially bothering her son, "Things will start to feel more normal again soon," she promised.

"Yeah," he turned away from her.

She reminded him, "The most important part is that the whole family is together."

He didn't know how to respond to her and remained quiet far longer than what seemed the space for a necessary reply.

Suddenly, the question tumbled out, "How bad is she? Georgina? I was afraid to ask before because we were in front of Charlie. How bad is she really?" It wasn't what was truly vexing him, but this at least was something specific, something that he could put his finger on.

"She's very confused. She's fading. I'm really not sure how much time she has left."

"I should see her," Thomas stated, but he didn't move from where he stood. Fear of the transformative power of decaying health pressed him into paralysis. To step back into the rooms and to the bedchamber of Josephine would forever change his memory of the woman.

"I'm sure she would love to know you're back," Margaret sat on one of the chaise lounge chairs that were fixtures of the patio.

"In her world, I never left," he didn't mean for it to sound cold. It just came off that way, and he hadn't been able to help it. He exhaled a steady stream of smoke.

Margaret studied her son, confused about the person who stood in front of her. "I—I think— in a way she knew you left," she stumbled through the words. "And even so, you're family. That still matters to her."

There was no way around it, Thomas supposed. Frequent visits to his family would be an expectation, and that included Georgina. And though he loved them, something in his heart ached for the opportunity to see his loved ones as their past selves. There was an uncrossable distance he felt with each and every one of them that left him feeling numb.

But you can't reverse time.

Thomas tapped the butt of the cigarette against the stone railing to extinguish what was left of it and wondered what on earth to do with the remains. It seemed wrong to toss it into the courtyard, and he had no ashtray. He'd have to run it under water and throw it in the trash.

"Where is she then?" He turned towards his mother ready to cross the invisible precipice.

"I'll take you to her."

* * *

The air in the dim bedroom was cooler for the window shades repelled any of the rays of sunlight that would have warmed the small room.

Tom crept in, fearful that the slight frame under the mass of quilted covers was asleep, and his entrance might wake her from much-needed rest. The presence of his mother follows him into a room like a shadow. His fears were unwarranted since the movement in the darkness caught a very much awake Georgina's attention.

"Who's there?" Her feeble voice, thick with her German accent that had not disappeared after her immigration, quavered with uncertainty towards the unknown figures in the dark.

"It's me, Mama. It's Maggie," Margaret eased her anxiety with the soothing sensation that her familiar voice always had for her.

" _Meine Geliebte_ ," Georgina crooned in her native language, "who do you have with you? Turn on the light."

Thomas wanted to protest against the request for his own comfort, but he didn't want to deny the woman anything. Wordless, he allowed his mother to flick on the light switch. Soft incandescent light bathed the room and allowed him the first real glance of his grandmother in more than two years.

Physically, she seemed the same person. Although, her cheeks were more sunken and the wrinkles of age were deeper and more defined. And somehow, she seemed smaller. Likely, she had lost an abundance of muscle mass leaving her rail thin.

Drawing closer, Tom took a seat on the chair next to her bedside. Her watery grey eyes bore through him as if she was staring at the wall behind him and not at him. The irises searched for something and then widened in recognition.

"Robert's home!" she exclaimed.

"No, Mom, no," Margaret's voice was stricken with dismay at the name of her dead husband. "Mom, this is Tom. Tom's back. Tom's back home."

"No, Maggie! It's Robert," Georgina insisted. She turned her attention back to Tom. "Have you seen the baby?" she demanded.

Tom swallowed hard, absolutely speechless.

"Robert, have you seen the baby?" Georgina asked again becoming agitated at the unresponsive disposition that Thomas had adopted.

Thomas' eyes searched out for his mother. The pain-stricken expression on her face could not be masked, and he struggled to suppress his own feeling.

"Robbie," Georgina tried to reach out to him.

Aghast, Tom rose from the chair and stumbled back from the bed.

"I'm sorry- I'm sorry," he heard himself repeating. He wasn't sure whether he was trying to apologize to Georgina or to his mother.

"What'll you name the baby?" the older woman called from the bed.

Staggering towards the door, Tom briefly laid his arms on her shoulders as he stuck behind her in the small space. He squeezed, "I'm sorry."

"Go-go ahead," Margaret waved him to the door, "Mom-" Tom heard her trying to calm Georgina as he exited into the hall.

"My father's name was Charles," Georgina stated matter of fact.

Sharp pain nestled itself in the back of his throat and swallowing wouldn't vanquish it. His face was warm, and he blinked back what was threatening to break free from the restraints he had been trying to wrap around his emotions.

There was no going back into the bedroom. Not now. But the others were down the hall ahead of him.

He couldn't move back, but he couldn't move forward either.


	7. Biding Time

Hours after leaving the Buckets at the front of the factory doors, Wonka rose from his spot among the butter-cup flower patch in the Chocolate Room. The downy mint he'd chosen to act as grass in his creation gave way under the soles of his shoes as he ambled on towards his beloved river of molten chocolate to walk along its bank. Below, eddies swirled mixing the delicate cream and light dustings of sugar that his Oompa-Loompas added by the hour. The movement and the murmured rush of the waterfall had the reliable calming effect it always had on him.

He fished out a bronze pocket watch and clicked it open. The ornate hands pointed to quarter past five in the afternoon letting him know that it was time to visit the Bucket suite to see whether it was a welcoming atmosphere to join them for an evening meal. Trepidation followed him as he trudged his way up the candied pebble path that would bring him to the secret door that annexed to a hallway near his office.

Closing the door on his confectionary world, he ventured down the hall towards the main entrance area. His goal was the door at the end of the hall, but ahead on the right was the door to James' office. It was on the opposite side of the hall from the secret second door that would have allowed him access to his own. Wonka paused at James' threshold and peered in.

James sat at a heavy wooden desk that was laden with file folders, schedules, and billings. His glasses perched on the end of his nose as he studied with close concentration a contract. The true business of the company occurred here.

"Are you coming, James?" Willy drew his assistant's attention to him.

Wilkinson looked up from the documents and pressed the bridge of his glasses back up into a better position to see Willy.

"So you are going?" James had the daring habit of answering Willy's questions with more questions when he was deliberating his own stances on any topic of conversation.

"I didn't get to see Charlie today. This at least allows me a little time with him."

James folded his hands, "Do you feel it's wise? So early?" He saw through some of Willy's motivation. "Thomas is just arrived."

Willy leaned against the frame of the door, "I feel ill-at-ease," he confessed, knowing that of all people, James was the one he could confide in. "I don't like thinking Tom isn't very accepting of our arrangement with Charlie and his family."

"He probably needs some space, Willy," James stood and rounded the corner of his desk. "He's back from war, not even in his own home. It's difficult enough when you do come back to familiarity. I can't imagine how he's feeling right now." In his new position, the light of the office accentuated the scar on his face.

"You know a little of it," Willy spoke softly.

James frowned, "I suppose, but Thomas and I have traveled different journeys. I was medically discharged from the heart of Berlin. He survived Vietnam, but I hear different horrors about it." He paused and pursed his lips, "I came back to my own house, Willy. Our town. Back to familiar friends."

"You weren't quite back right away," Willy pointed out. It had taken months, even years, for him to help James achieve a sense of normalcy again.

James' smile was tinged with a bit of sadness, "It took you bullying me into the candy business."

"Would you rather be doing something else?" Even though Willy's voice had a lilt of humor to it, the question was serious.

James couldn't imagine having had a life different to the one he had now. He firmly answered, "No."

"I pushed you then, James," Willy pointed out. "Biding time or taking it slow sometimes isn't the right thing to do."

James understood how he was trying to apply past logic to a present situation, but wasn't sure whether Willy was doing the right thing.

"I'll go tonight," James conceded. "But we leave if it doesn't feel right. Focus on Charlie, Willy. Give Tom distance."

Wonka didn't argue. But he didn't concede either.


	8. The Dinner Party

The atmosphere of the Bucket suite was far different from what Willy and James normally experienced during their visits with the family. The arrival of the newest member had created both an energy and a divide in the group.

Charlie greeted the chocolatier and his assistant with his usual exuberance by jumping up and meeting them at the door. He gave Wonka an expected hug and gave the tentative smile he reserved for James, a man that he was still trying to find a comfortable level of comradery with. As much as James tried, it was still taking the boy a while to divest his image from the Slugworth guise he'd used two years ago during the Golden Ticket campaign. Yet, Charlie was warming to him for sure.

After greeting the men, Charlie loped his way back to the dining room table leaving Wonka and James to step further into the sitting area to sit and chat in anticipation of dinner.

Occupying two other seats at the dining table were Grandpa Joe and Thomas. The former shuffled the tattered deck of cards that had made the move to the factory with the family. The latter, sat, twisted in his chair with a relaxed arm hanging over the back. As the hand was being dealt, he conversed cheerfully with George and Josephine who sat in comfortable chairs in the living area.

Wonka and James missed the topic of conversation, but whatever the trio were talking about elicited a warm chuckle from Tom. However, he immediately sobered when the men came into view.

"Hello, again," Wonka greeted.

Thomas offered a half smile and a small incline of his head. He looked ready to draw himself away, but Wonka interjected for a moment more of his attention.

"Might I introduce my associate? Mr. James Wilkinson."

James stepped forward while extending a hand, and Tom quietly shook it. Wonka noticed Tom was far more receptive to James' first handshake than he had been to his own.

"Very nice to meet you," James manners were apparent as always.

"Likewise."

"We're dealt," Charlie's voice saved everyone from the need of further pleasantries. "Tom you have to go first. Grandpa dealt."

"Do I now?" Evident relief spread across Tom's face as he arched an eyebrow and returned to the game he was involved in. He twisted his back to the four that now sat in the living room and took up the small handful of cards allotted to him. Fanning them out, he mused over what had been dealt to him and then finally laid down a card on the center pile.

Charlie laid a three of clubs on the three of diamonds his brother had just put down, "It's clubs now, Grandpa. You have to lay down a club or draw from the deck."

"Or lay an eight," Tom calmly conferred a gentle reminder whilst tapping the edges of his cards patiently on the wood of the table. He reached for a glass of water and took a sip.

"Oh, yeah. Or lay an eight." Charlie echoed good-naturedly.

Wonka spied an exchange of glances between the elder of the three Buckets at the table. They were playing a game that Wonka had taught Charlie on one of their many afternoons together called "Crazy Eights," yet he could tell the men were humoring Charlie by letting him "teach" them. Wonka reflected that the circumstances of their old home life had not allowed the men to impart the rules of the game on the youngest of the brood although they already knew it.

Grandpa Joe laid down an eight, and Tom returned his glass to the table.

"Alright, Charlie. What do I do?" Tom asked taking up his cards once more. The young man had recognized that his brother gained much happiness and confidence from the role of instructor, and Wonka smiled at the ground half-amused and grateful that Tom allowed Charlie to relish the role. He managed to do it in a non-condescending, loving way, much of the same manner that Wonka always tried to conduct himself around the boy.

Tonight, the candy maker was battling with restraining himself. Under normal circumstances, he would have requested to join the game at the table. However, he did not want to disrupt the natural ease that existed between the current players. Thomas' reactions to him have been volatile, at best, and Wonka realized what his presence might do to the game.

Charlie glanced at what was just laid down. "Okay, so—so Grandpa put down an eight, so he gets to declare the suit he wants us to start laying down. What suit do you want, Grandpa?"

"Oh, Charlie," Joe pondered. "I don't know— hearts."

Tom pointedly discarded a card embellished with faded red hearts.

"Tom, I finally found a box of your clothes, I don't know what you want from it," Margaret burst forth from a back room interrupting the cadence of the game. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of Willy and James already in the apartment. "Oh!" She flushed. "I'm sorry I didn't hear you come in." Then, another thought seemed to dawn on her. "Thomas," she hissed, "you have to change."

Thomas was still wearing the threadbare sweater he'd discovered at the old house, and though the appearance of the garment seemed not to rattle anyone's conscience, the state of its disarray clearly bothered the matriarch.

"Yeah, we agreed that was the case," Tom remained unfazed by her entrance and watched what Charlie and Joe laid down for the round. Joe laid down a spade. "Really? Are you going to stick me with that card? Have mercy," he remarked far more quietly to the man at his side. Tom began to draw card after card from the deck searching for a suitable candidate to add to the center deck.

"Thomas," Margaret interjected again.

"Mmh?"

"What shirt do you want?"

"There we go," Tom finally drew a spade and dropped it down the pile. Finally, he considered her question. "I don't know-the green one?" He suggested.

"Had a hole in the collar."

"Blue?" He tried again.

"You don't have a blue shirt."

Joe tutted, enjoying what seemed to be usual banter between mother and son. Tom turned in his chair, giving his mother his full attention.

"How about one of the few decent shirts you've already dug in the box and found?" He smiled wryly.

The remark wasn't one of disrespect or dismissiveness. Clearly, there was affection in the words, if not a little bit of resignation that he would not be able to satisfy his mother without letting her have whatever she wanted.

"I'll wear whatever you want me to," he assured her. "Just bring it out."

"You need new clothes," Margaret grimaced. "But I think I found something passable. The rest can go."

"Keep a few things."

"Why?"

"Because you'll get frustrated when I'll stain the new clothes or tear holes in them. Leave some work clothes," It was Tom's turn in the game again and he drew a few cards before adding a diamond to the growing pile between them.

Margaret started to say something but thought better of it. "I'll get the shirt," she excused herself and retreated back to her bedroom.

Wonka felt James shift on the couch next to him. To a stranger, it was hard to tell what the man was feeling, but Willy knew the man better than that. James was uncomfortable inserting himself into any family scenes and tonight was a portrait of how the Buckets conducted themselves with each other. In the eyes of his business partner, they were both intruders.

At the table, Charlie laid down the last card in his hand. "I'm out of cards. I won!" He exclaimed.

"Good for you, Charlie," Josephine had been enraptured by the proceedings of the game from her seat, and now she congratulated her grandson on his victory.

"I was nearly there, too," Thomas dropped the two remaining cards he'd held onto the table.

"Good game from the both of you," Joe shook Charlie's hand, then Tom's, with sportsmanlike conduct.

"Nicely played, Charlie," Thomas commented, standing up from the table with a now empty glass he was intent on refilling. As he passed the boy, his hand stretched out to ruffle his hair as he walked by.

Liberated from the game, Charlie pushed himself off the wooden chair and joined Wonka at the sofa where he had observed the game. He squeezed himself between James and Willy after displaying a slightly apologetic smile to the assistant. James returned it with a warm one of his own.

This. This felt more natural to Willy. He allowed his left hand to reach out and rest itself briefly on his apprentice's shoulder.

"Did you enjoy the afternoon, Charlie?" Willy knew Charlie had been wrestling with the disappointment of giving up the time he usually spent with the chocolatier on the weekends to stay with his family.

But Charlie's happiness was genuine as he answered with an articulated, "I did." Then, as if his thoughts were a few steps behind his words and actions today, he tripped over his next few sentences. "But I did miss the factory today. I really, really did. I'm sorry you were alone."

Willy was touched by Charlie's concern. "I'm never really alone, Charlie," he assured the boy, thinking of the Oompa Loompas and James. Yet, today had felt different. Like he was separate from everything. His words didn't seem to affect Charlie's opinion. "Tell you what, my boy. Why don't you and I ask your mother if you can spend some time with me tomorrow, instead?"

Charlie brightened at the proposition. "Can we show Tom the factory?"

"Hmm," Wonka pressed his lips together. "I—I do suppose we can." He surprised himself at the hesitancy he still felt. Tom was part of the package deal of the Buckets, and every other member of the family certainly knew the ins and outs of his factory. There were no secrets for those who called the factory home.

He turned his head towards the kitchen. Thomas had commandeered a cutting board and a knife was chopping some washed lettuce for a salad. As he tossed the greens in a bowl he kept a lively conversation with Joe. He was animated once again by the presence of his family. It clashed with how reserved he was around Wonka, and Willy wondered if he had done anything to turn the boy off from him.

Margaret walked back in again, a pale checkered, grey shirt on hand, "Tom, leave that be," she waved him away from the kitchen items but he didn't heed her.

"It's a salad. You can't screw up a salad," he reached for some of the peeled carrots and started to slice them.

"But I'm cooking tonight," she gently pushed him away from the cutting board and pressed the fresh shirt into his hands.

Joe offered his grandson support from his seat at the table, "He isn't harming anything."

"Joe, it's his first night home," Margaret sighed and took the knife away from her son. "It's your first night home," she repeated. "Go talk. Be a part of things."

"I am talking. I am a part of things. I'm being extremely social today," Tom teased her. He leaned over the counter to Joe. "You see that? One little thing. I try one little thing in the kitchen, and I get yelled at."

"He already got to your chicken," George grunted from his chair.

Tom head snapped towards him, "You snitch!"

"I'm not complaining," George added. "Another good reason that he's home."

All the Buckets loved Margaret dearly, but each agreed her cooking was rather bland and simple.

"Thomas…" she opened the door to the oven and peered in. "What did you do?" Her meat now had a blend of savory spices rubbed into it and an enticing aroma escaped the oven.

"I can't help it," he protested.

She closed the oven door. "I didn't want you to have to do anything tonight."

"Oh, Mom," he pulled her into a hug. "I love your salt and pepper chicken, but it's my first meal of real food in a long time. I really, really couldn't help myself."

"It looks delicious," she grumbled in faux unhappiness. He laughed and kissed her temple before pulling away. "You know what, I will let you make the salad though. Happy?"

"You don't touch this one."

"Promise," he agreed. "I really did try to talk myself out of it though," he continued on jovially as he laid the new shirt down on the counter and started to pull his old sweater over his head. "I'm usually very persuasive, but—"

"Oh my god, what happened to you?" Margaret cut him off.

Tom stood in his undershirt. Her gaze was locked into his exposed right shoulder. At the odd angle from where he sat, Wonka saw the black and green bruised mess of his shoulder before Tom clumsily pulled on the shirt.

"It's nothing," he fumbled with a button.

"It's clearly something."

Everyone's attention shifted to the two of them.

"It looks worse than it is," Thomas murmured. All manner of humor and light-heartedness had left him completely. He scanned the room. "I  _am_ fine. It  _is_ going to heal."

For a long time, nobody spoke. Charlie had gone absolutely rigid at Willy's side. The boy's mouth pinched in concern about Thomas' injury, and his eyes swirled with the mild confusion of what really was happening. Willy looked above the head of his apprentice towards James. The man sat coiled to spring up at any moment and dash for the door he so longed to exit. Silently, he communicated to Willy that they were out of their element and should retreat.

Willy didn't move.

"Jesus Christ…" George exclaimed, breathless. "It's minor, Maggie. Pay it no mind. It happens. That's the trouble with guns. They've got kickback. Aren't I right, Joe? Surely, you had a kid in your company that made the same mistake. You gotta keep the butt of the gun on your shoulder. You hold it too far forward and you hurt yourself. Tell her it's normal. Nothing to worry about."

Joe's soulful eyes regarded Tom, then Maggie, and then his eldest grandson again, "It's nothing to worry about," he echoed, though his voice was low.

Tom stared at the floor unable to raise his gaze to anyone. Josephine fretted with her hands trying to knit with invisible needles and yarn as they tousled against one another. Joe sat at the table unable to rise to his feet.

The truth of the matter sunk in. Thomas hadn't merely just been 'away.'

On the countertop, the small beige kitchen timer ticked down its final moments to it shrill crescendo of alarm. The aggressive buzz of angry metal broke the somber silence and died out.

Tom chewed at his lower lip. Nobody moved. With a sharp inhale, he let out a sigh of tension. "Charlie, wash up," he ordered with a casual authority he was used to. Readily, Charlie left Willy and James and disappeared into the small restroom down the hall.

Tom stepped back into the kitchen area, put on a pair of oven mitts, and rescued the main course from the still torrid oven. The pan dropped with more than the intended force on a pair of trivets waiting on the counter. Margaret and Joe seemed to snap back to life.

Joe rose from the table. "Charlie, help me with the place settings," he requested as the young boy returned with freshly scrubbed hands.

Tom stabbed the meat thermometer into a sizzling breast. "What do you need of me?" He looked at Margaret as if daring her to keep him from ensuring the start to the meal.

Joe and Charlie circulated with the plates, napkins, and utensils. Josephine, with the help of George, shuffled to a seat at the table.

There was no delaying the meal.

"Bread is on the cooling rack," Margaret flitted around the kitchen trying to find a basket and a bread knife. "Salad needs to be finished."

"I have it." Tom scooped up the bowl of greens that had been abandoned and hastily finished adding the toppings to it. He handed it over the counter to Joe who placed it neatly on the table. Every Bucket worked together to get each piece of the meal on the table reaching out to take things but never really making contact with each other.

"Willy," James' voice was barely louder than a whisper.

"It's fine, James," Willy rose from his seat knowing that his business partner was going to suggest that they leave. But, instead of excusing himself and heading to the door, Willy approached the dining table.

"Do you mind if I sit by you, Charlie?" He helped the boy fold one of the napkins he was placing on everyone's empty plate.

"Not at all, Wonka." It was hard to tell if Charlie was affected by the series of evening events.

"Right then," Willy perched himself on a chair between Charlie and Josephine. George sat across from the chocolatier, and Joe settled on the other side of Charlie. Margaret sat at the head of the table, opposite her mother-in-law, while Tom brought the platter of chicken to the table. He stood before the seat across from his brother.

"Mr. Wilkinson," he collapsed down at the table, "dinner is ready. Will you be joining us?" There was a sharp bite to his request.

Wonka turned to see that James was standing awkwardly in the middle of the living space. The man licked his lips, a habit that Willy knew well, and tried to buy more time for his response. His hands clenched and unclenched as he stuttered at the beginning of a reply.

The candy man glanced back again at Tom. Something softened in the younger man, and his eyes lowered to make a study of the table's wood grain.

"There's a place here beside me," he gestured at the open plate at his right. "You're more than welcome to it."

The momentum of the evening hit another abrupt stop. The group waited to plate their meal until they garnered a response from James. More remorse seeped into Tom's expression.

Willy decided to interject.

"Come now, James. Don't say no to a delicious meal," he swept his napkin off his plate and draped it over his lap. "Our thanks to all of you for letting us partake."

He picked a piece of bread from the basket and set it on Charlie's plate before taking another for his own. "Charlie tells me you finished the sweater you were working on, Josephine. How did it turn out?" He passed the bread basket to her.

His flurry of activity spurred motion into the others. Margaret sipped from her water glass, and Joe dished out some salad onto his plate. Having served himself a piece of chicken, Tom offered the tongs to Charlie.

In the background, James cautiously took the empty seat at the table.


	9. A Place of One's Own

Now that dinner was done and the dishes were cleared each member of the dining party was accorded the luxury of the few hours of repose that followed.

While the majority of the group placed themselves around the seating the living space could offer, Thomas laid stretched out of the floor off to the side of the sofas and chairs. Charlie was with him, lying perpendicular and resting his own head on his brother's chest.

Soft murmurs had lulled the soldier into a state of security and on the verge of well-needed sleep. But the hour's chime forced his heavy eyelids open as the lateness of the hour registered with him.

Reaching out a hand, Tom rested it on the curled up boy who had fallen fast asleep enveloped in the secure atmosphere of the room. Thomas enjoyed the affectionate display, yet the weight on his chest was more than he was used to and a full ache in his torso twinged. He needed to move.

"Charlie-" he pushed the word through the gravelly consistency of his exhausted voice and his brother stirred only to push further into his chest. All the excitement had siphoned off any energy that normally remained at the end of the day for Charlie, and he was lost to the world of dreams.

Charlie wasn't going to move from his own volition, so in a practiced move, Tom gently lifted Charlie's head to slip his body out from underneath. Freed, he sat up fully and leaned to stretch the knots in his body.

"It's funny," Margaret was seated closest to the two and broke away from any of the other conversations in the room, "I'm usually fighting him about bedtime."

Tom rubbed at his shoulder and regarded his brother. Charlie's chest rose and fell in slumber's steady rhythm. "Yeah, he's really out," he remarked, almost envious at how Charlie could succumb to such a rest.

"We should wake him and have him move to his bed. A night on the floor, even at his age, leaves one sore."

"I don't think we need to wake him," Tom responded softly. Putting all thoughts about the boy's age aside, he slid an arm under the crook of Charlie's knees and the other around the back to lift him. With great care, he found his footing. Inadvertently, Margaret stood from her chair.

"You have him?" She hovered nearby in case Thomas needed assistance.

"Mmh, yeah," Tom shifted Charlie in a better position. Although Charlie was thirteen, he was still a light load for Tom to carry. However, the extra inches his brother had grown over the two past years made the action more challenging and reminded him that soon he would no longer be able to do this. "His bedroom is this way, no?"

"First on the left," his mom nodded.

Tom found the room and pushed the already ajar door open with a soft tap from his foot before slipping in. He was careful not to accidentally knock Charlie's head on the doorframe as he wandering into the dim room. Not knowing the layout of the foreign space resulted in a stumbling approach to the bed, but having found the piece of furniture, Tom gingerly laid the boy down on the covers. Kneeling, he pulled off of one shoe, then the other, from his brother's feet. It was a ritual he was accustomed to from times where Charlie had fallen asleep in the middle of a news program, or a radio show, or a family conversation that stretched too far into the night. In the dark of the small house the family had previously made their home, Thomas had always carried him to the battered mattress and had piled on the afghans until he was certain the boy wouldn't feel a chill in the middle of the night.

This was much nicer bed. His hands and forearms sunk into its plush softness as he moved about adjusting things. Stealthily, he lifted Charlie's head and upper back and rolled down the bedding, then, after lowering him back down the the pillow, Thomas pulled the sheets and comforter from under his lower body and over Charlie's sleeping frame.

No question his brother would be warm tonight without the worry of extra blankets. The room was cozy, well-insulated, secure. He smoothed the blankets a final time and stood up. Shuffling, he squeezed between the side of the small desk that had been given to Charlie and the bed to unfasten the cloth drapes. Their fabric slackened to block out half of the exterior lights shining through the window. He rounded the other side of the desk, repeated the action, and let the room fall into more darkness.

Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the change in light as black outlines of unfamiliar furnishings started to define themselves from the dark. The bookcase to the right of him, ahead of that in the corner, a chair. More immediately in front of him was a shapeless lump on the floor. He prodded it with a toe realizing it was Charlie's school bag. Bending, he shifted it onto the desk chair.

The light of the hallway guided him towards the door and out of the room, and with a click of the latch, Thomas carefully pulled it shut behind him.

Back in the living room, he was faced with the reality that the gathering was over, for Mr. Wilkinson was absent from the group, presumably having left while Tom was putting Charlie to bed.

The factory owner remained, though. There he stood off towards the entrance area next to his mother. With bowed heads the two of them were conversing in undertone about something.

"I'm glad you agree," Mr. Wonka murmured in response to something while Margaret nodded.

"It's quite reasonable," Tom heard her say, "and much better than anything I had thought up."

As Thomas moved further into the room from the hallway Mr. Wonka noticed him, "there he is now."

Being the center of their conversation while having been out of the room did not sit well with Tom and caused his skin to prickle as he wondered what they had been saying about him. But before he could figure out why he had garnered the attention of the pair, he was faced with bidding goodnight to the remaining members of the evening's dinner party.

Josephine had shuffled up, pushing her metal walker in front of her. Joe and George followed behind her. She leaned in for a small kiss on his cheek, "Goodnight Thomas, dear. We're off to bed now."

"Goodnight," Tom offered up a smile and squeezed her forearm affectionately.

"We'll see you tomorrow," Joe assured him, although it seemed more of a question than a statement.

Thomas nodded, "you will."

The trio disappeared into the hallway behind him leaving him with his mother, Mr. Wonka, and a hint of expectancy in the air. With a cautious spirit, Tom walked over to the bag he had abandoned earlier in the afternoon and picked it up before fully approaching them.

He shouldered the pack, "I'm off."

Puzzlement engrained itself into Margaret's expression. It was clear that she wanted elaboration onto where he necessarily thought he was off to, but she waved the issue aside and shared instead, "Willy has something to show you."

"Can Mr. Wonka show me tomorrow?" exasperation colored the question because he wasn't sure how much longer he could entertain other people. "I'm very tired. I just want to go home."

His mother bit her lower lip. "Honey, do you mean the old house?"

"I do."

"But this is- here's our-" she stammered through her words. "You can't go back there."

Mr. Wonka stood silently off to the side, and though he didn't engage in the exchange, it was his presence that prevented Thomas from further pressing the subject with his mother. Tom eyed the man and shifted on his feet. He clutched at the strap of his bag, his fingernails dug into his palm.

"Tom, please," Margaret's eyes asked for cooperation, and as much as he wanted to fight right now, he couldn't. Housing was a private affair.

Mr. Wonka cleared his throat. "It'll only take a moment, I promise." His voice was careful, measured as if he was uncertain. "And then all of us can rest and start the day anew."

Something about the calmness about the man's demeanor made it impossible to say no. Even though Thomas couldn't imagine what oddity of the factory Mr. Wonka couldn't wait to show off until the next day, he found himself saying, "Okay."

He glanced back at the couch supposing it would end up being his bed for the night, so he dropped his bag resigning to the fact he wasn't leaving.

"Oh, no." Mr. Wonka gestured towards the bag, "I'm afraid you're misunderstanding, you see, take it with you." He indicted the door with a wave of his hand, "Mr. Thomas. Madam Bucket. Do follow me please."

And with that he was out the door.

* * *

They didn't travel far. In fact, they merely crossed the hall to a door much similar to the one they just departed from.

"Let me see," Mr. Wonka dug around in one of his coat pockets, then the other, clearly searching for something. "I know it's in here. Ah! There it is." He fished out a small set of keys from the velvet jacket. With a quick hand, he unlocked the door. "Go on," he tilted his head, indicting they other should enter first. Margaret walked in without hesitation, and, after a second or two, Thomas stepped over the threshold.

"It's not very large," Wonka narrated apologetically following them inside. "It's a similar layout to both mine and James' apartments. I had assumed you'd still take most of your meals with your family, but there's a small kitchenette that provides all the essentials."

To their right a narrow fridge was tucked into the far corner and a small oven was nestled to it's left. Perpendicular to the setup was the sink and a counter for workspace that extended out to act as a high island bar for a dining space. Thomas spotted two barstools on the opposite side.

Beyond that a sofa, comfortable enough to seat one or two, faced a stone fireplace that was set up in the farthest right corner of the room. A high bay window formed what was left of the back wall of the space, and situated under it a windowsill to sit on. Thomas preferred its view more than the windows that had been in the Bucket residence. Here, stretched out under the horizon instead of the inner courtyard, was an aerial view of the town. The image was only marred by having to look beyond the factory gates.

"Oh, this is wonderful," Margaret stepped farther into the room, happiness radiating off of her as she observed the little furnishings that had already been provided. "It's not too small for you," she remarked to Thomas, "I could see you reading on the window seat," her eyes rested on the raised bench under the great window. "You could have a bookcase there," his mother pointed to an open space nearby against the wall.

"We can add anything," Mr. Wonka hastily agreed. "In fact, I hadn't moved much in here because I didn't know what you would prefer. A bookcase would be quite easy to add," he paused, waiting to see if Thomas would request anything else, but the young man avoided his gaze and instead regarded the room.

The candymaker added, "The phone is a direct line," he referenced the item on the low side table next to the sofa. "I find the privacy it offers valuable," he began to ramble, uncomfortable with the silence of his intended audience. "I suppose privacy was the primary thought in all of this. Yes, it would have been easy to have found a way to add a bed in the other apartment, but I do remember being your age once, and well, it's sometimes preferable to have a place of one's own to be able to escape to, or so I find. So-that's why-" words began to fail him, and he simply just gestured to what was around them.

Margaret filled the quiet. "It's very thoughtful, Willy. Thank you."

Tom was still piecing together what had been said. The magnitude was what was being offered to him began to sink in. "Thank you," he echoed emptily. Slowly, the ex-soldier lowered the bag he carried to the floor.

Knowing the young man was only just beginning to register his offer, Mr. Wonka held out the small set of keys to him. "Take them, they're yours," he encouraged with a nod off his head. However, Thomas made no move to take them. Stepping forward, Mr. Wonka pressed them into his hands. "One is for this suite, another for your family's suite, and one is for the front gate," he explained. Being terribly talented at understanding people, Mr. Wonka knew now was the time to retreat.

"Madam Bucket, it is getting late, is it not?" the elder man turned to the matriarch. "Perhaps, we should let your son alone to rest for the night."

Margaret knew some things about her son as well. "I think you're right," she began to make her way to the door. "Goodnight, dear, we'll see you in the morning." She stopped and kissed Tom on the cheek.

"What about-" Tom stammered beginning to bring up a point of discussion that had sparked in his mind.

"Not tonight," Margaret cautioned.

"Yeah, but-"

Mr. Wonka cut in, "I don't negotiate after nine o'clock, a hard rule. Affects the sleep cycle. All complaints can be filed in the morning. I do suggest rest, you certainly look like you need it. Bedroom's through there," he pointed down a short hallway. And with that he turned on his heel and walked out the door.

A second passed.

"He's insane." Tom concluded.

"He's generous," Margaret corrected, bemused. She walked towards the door Mr. Wonka had just disappeared from, knowing Tom would keep trying to find ways to bow out of the offer if she stayed. "Go to sleep, Tom," she ordered slipping out of the door herself.

* * *

Alone, Thomas found he had nothing to do except follow their advice. A part of him fantasized about leaving the building entirely and returning to the small house he had been intent on returning to moments ago, but the more sensible, and exhausted, part of him decided against it.

He carried his bag down the hallway the eccentric candymaker had pointed out and entered the sole room at the end of it. A king-sized bed dressed in dove gray sheets and a navy blue comforter stretched most of the width of the space, and opposite to it was a wooden chest of drawers. On top of this furniture piece, Thomas set down his luggage. Curiosity led him to pull open one of the drawers only to reveal nothing was housed the chest.

He stared for a moment at the emptiness before him and then pushed the drawer shut before turning to the bed. Everything was laid out neat, orderly, but the starkness of the rooms was getting to him. It was more a hotel than anything. No true warmth. No personality. He didn't unpack his things and instead crossed over into the adjoined bathroom.

Splashing cold water on his face, Thomas patted it dry with the hand towel that hung from the rack. Tiredly, he rustled around the drawers and cabinets only to notice that there was no real amenities present for him, so he crossed back over to his pack and dug out a toothbrush. With vigor, he brushed his teeth using the weakened remnants of toothpaste that remained in the bristles from past brushings to clean his mouth. He cupped some water in his hand, sipped, and swished it around his mouth to rinse before hitting the light to retreat back to the bedroom.

Knowing he hadn't a decent pair of pajamas, he unbuttoned his outer shirt and laid it in the upholstered chair in the corner of the room before slipping out of the ragged pair of jeans. It would have to do for tonight.

Resigned, he pulled back the blankets and crawled into the massive bed. His aching body sunk into the softness of the mattress and he was reminded of the oddity of having such a luxury. All of his life had been beaten mattresses on a floor or rickety cots or bunks. He had stayed in a hotel twice. Once on his way out when being deported and once on the leg back home after his deployment. Being elevated from the floor was strange, and stranger yet was the comfortableness of the arrangement.

Laying there he waited for sleep to come. The heavy weight of the blankets became oppressive and he turned on his side, shifting his position. Somewhere in the darkness a small clock ticked in measured rhythm. The solitary sound increased the loneliness that was aching inside his chest to the point where it was hard to believe that relatively just a doorway away were the rest of his family. A part of him still felt like he was on the other side of the world.

Reaching his breaking point, Tom jarred up in bed and threw off covers. The only item he took with him was one of the down pillows as he padded his way down the hallway back to the living room area.

The room was lit up by the warm yellow tones of the distant lights of town. He approached the window bench and pulled himself onto of it while arranging the pillow behind his back to lean up against before resting his temple against the cool glass. The faintest growl of cars engines and night traffic reached his ears.

What was he going to do? He wrapped his arms around his knees. He tried to think out the possibilities, but his mind refused to focus. Besides, anything he could think up of felt wrong. In fact, everything had been feeling wrong for so long now that he wasn't sure when was the last time he had felt like he was in the right place doing the right thing. Vaguely he pinned down the cause of his confusion as lack of sleep. For another hour or so, he just sat, he eyes focused a mile off and his mind dumbly blank.

The position he sat in made him stiff, but there was a secureness to the beacon of light the town line had to offer, and at last the lights began to blur into themselves as he dropped off into a dreamless sleep.


	10. The Chocolate Room

Tom’s heart hammered out a tortured tattoo of nerves and panic. Some logical part of his mind reminded him to inhale. Breathing was essential. He was breathing. It just wasn’t working. Teeth gritted, he clenched at the inch of spare fabric at his thigh, twisting it, trying to ground himself in the tactile thing But the disconcerting black and white jagged waves of the crushing walls were so distracting. He wished vehemently that the walls would decide whether to be black or white.  

 

He reached out a sweaty hand and clenched one of Charlie's shoulders. His eyes, desperate for anything besides the dizzying optical illusion, caught the anxious face of Mr. Wonka regarding him with intense concern. ****

 

The man was too close. Thomas jammed his shoulder blades into the wall behind him trying to will the space to expand.

Mr. Wonka’s worry did not escape Charlie’s attention.

“It's only a short while,” the younger boy craned his neck to look up at Tom. “It's an elevator. You can feel the movement. We're almost there.”

“Yep,” he forced the syllable out with a grim smile.

Mr. Wonka finally interjected in a soft murmur, “Charlie's right. My dear boy, nothing can hurt you. There are surprises here or there, but nothing dangerous.”

Details of the first tour day from Charlie's correspondences flashed in Tom’s mind. “Can't very well burn me in an incinerator, can you? You'd never hear the end of it.” He joked morbidly, only realizing too late the tax of his jest. Wonka’s eyes dropped in defeat. “I'm sorry,” Tom forced out, “that's cruel of me. I know that's not what happened.”

Very little air remained in the stuffy box of a room.

Charlie was his saving grace. “Wonka, can we go through? We've stopped moving.”

Spurred by his pupil, Mr. Wonka readopted some of his usual energy, “You're right, Charlie. We're here. Mr. Thomas, this room gets a little small, but you'll see it's quite different when we get to the other side.” In the closeness of nonexistent space, Wonka reached to turn the knob. The door to their little vault swung open on a corridor wainscotted in cherry wood. Sets of doors mirrored each other occurring intermittently on either side tiled hall with one curious door lurking ominously at the very end wall.

“Charlie first, perhaps?” Mr. Wonka suggested in Thomas’ ear. “It is his tour...you can follow in the back?”

Bounding ahead, Charlie’s average stature transformed with each step until he was a young giant bent by the constraints of a normal sized room. Met with the sight, Tom desired the ability to go back to the moment that morning when Charlie knocked on his door to ask if Thomas would accompany the duo on a tour of the factory. If he'd only known the paces he would have been put through-- but Charlie had the happy talent of being quite persuasive to the ones who loved him, and Tom doubted he would have said ‘no’ in any scenario.

He jerked. A light hand had touched his arm.

“I'm sorry,” the chocolatier drew his hand back and leaned away. “James can't stand the elevator either--I really should have been thinking. But it's just a short while. I'm sorry if it's presumptuous-- ”  

“I don't know,” Tom cut him off, mind buzzing, as he took another pace backward from the narrow door and the man. In a spastic motion, he gestured the owner to move past him. “I don't know what's wrong. I--I don't like open spaces either.” An uncontrollable phantom feeling of far-off eyes set a shiver down his spine even though the confined space shouldn't have allowed it to. He clenched his hand a few times to quell it.

The man's mouth opened as if to say something, but after a second thought, Mr. Wonka remained silent. Pity inundated the watery blue irises that stared into him.

Tom glanced off to one of the hated black and white walls of the elevator, unable to bear being studied in such a way. “He's waiting,”  he tilted his chin forward trying to get the eyes to look elsewhere. “Let's get on with it, no?”

For a moment, Thomas thought the candy maker hadn't heard him, or simply chose not to hear him. But after the brief paralysis, Mr. Wonka swept his head from his head. “Certainly,” he finally responded and ducked into the new chamber to advance towards where Charlie waited. Each step forced him to hunch further over as the ceiling came closer and closer to grazing the top of his tamed mane of hair. Almost kneeling, he reached out and prodded the molding searching for something.

“A little farther left,” Charlie piped up trying to be helpful.

“Left you say?”

Even from his position, Thomas could spy the corner of Mr. Wonka's lip crook in wry bemusement. A second later a spring-loaded panel popped open from the woodwork. The man gestured to the minute keyboard of alternating ivory and ebony.

“We’ll give you a try, Charlie.”

The boy protested. “But Wonka, you play it so much better.”

The two spoke with so much ease, Thomas’ feet fought the impulse to retreat. Why had Charlie wanted him here? Clearly, he was what was throwing the harmony of the routine off.

“Practice is what got me there, Charlie. You can do it. Slow down if you need to. Even if you can't manage the tempo, the door will unlock. Give it a try.”

The apprentice rested a hand on the chromatic of the lower 'C’ and gave a clumsy but accurate attempt at the eighth note runs. His effort was rewarded by an audible click of a tumbler.

“I did it!”

“Well done, Charlie, my boy!” Wonka clapped the boy's shoulder to give it a tight squeeze.

His brother ventured to look through the man's elbow towards him. Tom cleared his throat from a surprising blockage. “Mozart's proud, kiddo.”

The reference to the composer of the wrangled melodic bars forced Mr. Wonka to twist back around. “Very good,” he spoke through a soft smile and he nudged Charlie. “He's much smarter than the last group I led through here.”

“Of course he is,” Charlie beamed making Thomas uncomfortable with the praise being so lavishly bestowed upon him.

“It's a very common piece,” he excused himself, “generally, I'm musically illiterate.”

“No, you're not. You love the radio.” Charlie fought back. “You know a lot about music.”

Thomas started towards a reply, but Mr. Wonka interjected waving them both off. “He knows Mozart, and that's good enough. Charlie, they'll be plenty of time to test his music knowledge, and Mr. Thomas, perhaps you're being too humble of your skills. Now, come along. There are far better things ahead than those we leave behind.*”

The chocolatier pressed the musical lock back into the wooden panel with a flick of a wrist and pushed open the entry to his coveted creation.

 

* * *

 

In many ways, Willy was a collector. The bookshelves in his library, the cabinets in his quarters, and crannies of his inventing room housed all sorts of curiosities and memorabilia. His mind was no different, as Willy stowed away every creative whim and fleeting fancy that flitted across his brain. Memories was just another classification he collected, and he had a whole store of 'the first glances.’

Charlie's by far was one of his most cherished. For every time the boy entered the Chocolate Room, Willy was brought back to the first astonished look of bewilderment that had illuminated his apprentice's face on the day of their first tour. Even though Charlie had been in this room numerous times, there still was a spark of awe in Charlie's eyes during each visit. This time was no different. As the young ventured onto the stony terrace that surveyed his edible creation, some dying ember from the previous trips flickered up into a fiery intensity, and new energy seized the boy who restrained himself from running off to other beloved parts of the Chocolate Room.

Willy glanced back, “Forward now, Mr. Thomas,” he motioned his guest to cross the condensed hallway into the new space. “It's much more spacious over here, just like I promised.”

The soldier dared to move from the threshold of the elevator and crossed across the beige and maroon tiles into the open expanse of the balcony platform.

And here was another for the collection.

If Charlie's reaction to the Chocolate Room was fire, an outsider might have described his elder brother's as stone. To the uncareful observer, it seemed Thomas Bucket was entirely unfazed by the spectacle that spread out before him. He said nothing. No lights brightened.

But Willy was a patient man and knew it was less a story of stone and more a story of water. Underneath lay a dark, vast unknown, but there were ripples on the surface if only one looked closely. Much like how all the secrets of the deep ocean remained potentially dangerous until discovered, the explorer had to tread carefully in his discovery.

There was the slightest twitch in Tom’s jawbone. Willy followed the young man's eyes as they moved first to the treetops and then to the stark caverns where the Wonkatanga paddled in and out of the room. He did not stop to register anything in between. Then, casually, Tom stepped rotating ever so slightly to check the blind spots on either side of the terrace.

“Tell him about the dreams and realities bit,” Charlie requested, snapping Willy out of his rumination.

Tom rounded his gait, pulling away from the stone railing. Some tenseness was disappearing, as he was confirming they were alone, and no threats laid in wait for them. Willy reminded himself, it was probably a force of habit for Thomas in any new environment.

“What about dreams and realities?” The soldier pressed, finally inspecting what else the room contained.

Traces of curiosity began to ripples just under the surface. The young man's head tilted at a slight angle as his eyes lit upon the Chocolate Waterfall. Softly, the steady rush of the molten confectionary could be heard from where they stood. Thomas’ eyes narrowed as if he was trying to figure out a puzzle. To Willy's relief, he could sense the tension slowly disapparating from his visitor as he continued to study the landscape.

“It's something I said the very first time Charlie saw this room,” Willy explained. “Here, some of my dreams become reality, and some of my realities become dreams.”

Thomas seemed to turn the phrase over in his mind as he tried to figure out the phenomena of the trees and shrubbery in the near distance.

Charlie retreated back to the two men from his wanderings. “It's all candy.”

“I see that.”

His apprentice was keenly aware of where the soldier was staring.

“They’re mint leaves. And the trunks are candy canes and licorice.”

Thomas’ gaze rose towards the leaden glass of the upper walls and ceiling. The light of one of the first clear spring days shone through the panes. Something cleared in his expression like when morning mist evaporates with the warmth of the afternoon sun, and Willy thought he spied a bit of wistfulness creeping up in the depths of the eyes.

Tom finally spoke again, “I think I get it.”


End file.
